


the aftershocks remain

by pdameron



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Asshole Priests, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Gen, Ghosts, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, John Silver's Tragic Past, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: For as long as he can remember, John Silver has been able to see ghosts. He has no trouble keeping this secret from Flint - until Charlestown. Until Miranda.-the working title for this was "the paranorman fic"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's a g-g-g-g-g-ghost fic!
> 
> title from next to normal, which also (sort of) features a ghost
> 
> shoutout to anna as always for betaing <3

 

When Silver blearily opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Flint looking at him thoughtfully, a soft, not-quite smile on his face. 

This in itself is unusual, as Silver can count on one hand the times Flint has genuinely smiled at him, but more unusual is the sight of Mrs. Barlow just behind Flint, staring at her - husband? Lover? Silver’s never really gotten an answer on that -  _ companion _ , utterly distraught. Between the two of them, it’s usually the other way around, Flint looking upset or angry about something or other paired with Barlow’s knowing, patient smiles.

He must make some sort of confused noise, as Flint’s eyes widen and he goes to leave the room. Silver’s confused until he hears him shout Howell’s name; he’s a bit slow on the uptake, tired and fuzzy-headed. He thinks he’s perhaps been given something to help him sleep, which makes his stomach lurch: the things he could let slip in such a state do not bear thinking about. 

“I take it your time in Charlestown didn’t go as planned?” he asks Barlow, words slurred, because if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll go mad from the sheer awkwardness he feels at being left alone with her.

She doesn’t respond, still staring after where Flint last stood, her back mostly to him.

“Mrs. Barlow?” he asks, slightly concerned.

She whips around to face him fully, eyes wide and shocked, mouth agape. Silver doesn’t understand why, until he finally sees the bullet hole in her forehead, until he realizes the shine he’d absently noticed in her dark hair hadn’t been water, but blood.

“You can  _ see _ me?” she gasps, and - yes, there it is, that familiar blue haze surrounding her body. He wonders why he hadn’t noticed before. She’s also slightly translucent, as all ghosts tend to be. Fuck, it must be laudanum Howell’s put him on, if his mind is this clouded. 

Silver tries to sit up, and it’s then that he feels a blinding agony in his leg. With the pain comes the memory of Vane’s quartermaster, of being held down by a crowd of men,  _ his _ men, and - his eyes fly open from where he’d closed them in pain. He looks down with horror to see an empty space where the lower half of his leg once was. His breath starts to come unevenly as true panic begins to set in - he’s a  _ cripple _ , he’s trapped here, he couldn’t run from this even if he tried - and dark spots start to cloud his vision.

“Mister Silver?” a soft voice says, and when he raises his eyes, now filled with frantic tears, Barlow is staring at him in confused wonder. 

She’s dead, does she know she’s dead? She must know, she’s such a clever woman - oh god, his leg, it hurts  _ so much _ , how can it hurt so much when it’s not  _ there _ anymore?

Flint comes back, the doctor in tow, just as he finally starts to speak. 

“Mrs. Barlow - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - ”

He’s crying now, from the pain and the shock and the sorrow he feels for her and - why has Flint stopped moving? Why is he just standing there? Why is he looking at him like that? 

Silver doesn’t have time to ponder this, because Howell is forcing something foul-tasting down his throat and the world around him starts to fade.

 

*****

 

Silver doesn’t speak to Barlow again until after Flint storms from the cabin, fuming with rage and cursing Jack Rackham to hell and back. 

Silver’s no fool: he knows Flint suspects him, but he’s quite honestly too fucking tired to worry about it at the moment. Everything hurts, but everything is also slightly hazy; he’s off the drugs, yes, but he’s perpetually tipsy from all the rum. 

He shifts around, trying to get comfortable, and nearly jumps out of his skin as Miranda fucking Barlow’s head pops up through the cushion on the bench where his calf should be.

These past few days he’s been just lucid enough to watch the goings-on in the captain’s cabin, and through slitted eyes he’s seen her adjust to being a ghost: her surprise as she’d started to float one afternoon; her delighted laugh as she realized she could indeed control when and where she levitates; the sound of alarm she’d let out as Flint had unknowingly walked right through her. 

She’s also been trying to engage Silver in conversation near constantly. He understands, really: ghosts aren’t too common on ships, and the only ones on the warship currently are Randall and Joshua, if he remembers correctly. 

Joshua passes through about once a day, clearly having just as good a time as a ghost as he always seemed to as a man. Barlow complained to Silver once, in an attempt to lure him into talking with her, that Joshua is more interested in seeing how high he can fly or how far deep into the ocean he can dive (no need for air anymore, after all) than actually conversing with her.

And, well, if he only had Randall for company, he’d be pretty desperate for intelligent conversation, too. 

“You’re lying about the gold, I can tell.” she says, giving him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look. 

He gives her what he hopes is an annoyed expression. He probably just looks tired. “And who exactly are you going to bring these suspicions to?”

Her eyes positively light up, and she soars into the air, the rest of her body gliding through the bench and then hovering above Silver. 

“Finally! I  _ knew _ you could see me, I knew it. I worried maybe you’d been hallucinating because of the drugs, that it had been a horrible coincidence. You wouldn’t look me in the eyes or talk to me at all, and - ”

Her irritation at his deception of Flint seems to have faded in her excitement, but he has no doubt it’ll come up again at some point.

“Well, I’ve hardly survived this long by talking to ghosts in front of people who can’t see them.”

Barlow pauses at that, and floats her way down until she’s sitting - or, at least seems to be sitting - on the bench next to Silver. “‘Survived?’”

He sighs, closing his eyes against the pain as he tries to sit up more fully. He might as well face her fully, if they’re going to be having an actual discussion.

“How well do you think a little boy talking to ghosts would go over at a Catholic orphanage?”

He doesn’t mention his father. The point’s been made well enough, and that’s not something he’ll ever speak of again, if he has his way. 

The face she makes is not one of pity, like he’d expected, but rather empathy, as if she, too, has been ostracized, has been cast out. Maybe she has; Silver knows next to nothing about her.

“What do you normally do, when faced with ghosts?” 

“Pretend I can’t see them. Don’t interact, don’t wave, or even really  _ look _ at them, unless I’m alone. Can’t have people thinking I’m mad, can I?”

She nods to herself, thoughtful. “So these past few days, you’ve been  _ ignoring _ me because you didn’t want James to suspect anything was amiss.”

“Yes. I am sorry. I understand better than most what a poor conversationalist Randall is, and - well, Joshua’s always been more interested in having a good time than a good talk.”

She considers him for a moment, then smiles brightly. “Well, it was horribly rude of you, I’ll admit, but considering the circumstances I suppose I’ll have to forgive you.”

He gives her a bemused sort of look. “How magnanimous of you, Mrs. Barlow.”

She tuts at him, shaking her head. “Miranda, if you please.”

He feels his brows raise, surprised at this insistence on informality. Although, in a way it makes sense. Flint seemingly thrives off confounding and aggravating Silver: why shouldn’t his woman surprise him just as well?

“That’s awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

“Well, we’ll have to be familiar if we’re going to be friends,  _ John _ ,”  Miranda replies, as if she’s speaking to a particularly thick child. 

There’s a mischievous glint in her eye, a playful smile on her face, and, not for the first time, Silver regrets ever opening his mouth.

 

*****

 

At first, Silver doesn’t really know how to talk to Miranda. 

This isn’t to say he doesn’t  _ want _ to speak with her. In truth, all he wants to do is pester her with question after question, to find out everything about her and who she is to Flint. But he has a feeling he’d get nothing but vagueness for those efforts.  

Sometimes it feels as though he’s lost his tongue as well as his leg, for how difficult it is to put voice to his thoughts lately. 

Still, he has nothing to do except twiddle his thumbs or talk with Miranda when the Captain leaves his cabin in the morning so he figures it would be best just -  _ try _ , at least. 

“So…” he starts awkwardly, scooching back until he can sit up properly and lean back against the pillow Howell had placed there. He trails off, though, because he can’t think of anything to say other than  _ Who are you really?,  _ and he doesn’t think they’re quite there yet.

“ _ So _ , John. When did you first realize you could see ghosts?”

He should have realized, of course, that a lady like Miranda Barlow would know exactly what to say. He has a feeling she’s had some practice at playing hostess, at steering conversations where she wants. Isn’t that what rich English women do, in their fancy parlors and salons?

“You really want to talk about this? Doesn’t it upset you? Considering you…well….”

“Died?”

Silver winces. “Yes. That.”

Miranda shrugs. “I had over a week to come to terms with my own mortality while you were mostly unconscious and convalescing. Of course, it’s difficult to see James in such pain, but to be honest John dear, I don’t think you’ve yet earned the sort of trust that warrants such discussion from me or him.”

He wants to point out that he has, after all, just given his leg for Flint’s men, but he elects to stay silent.

“Therefore: ghosts,” she finishes, giving him an indulgent sort of smile, like she doesn’t understand how he didn’t come to this conclusion himself. It is, to be fair, the most obvious conversation choice. He blames the rum and Howell’s attempts to drug him for keeping him from thinking of it first.

“Alright,” he agrees, keeping his voice relatively low - it wouldn’t do for any passersby to think he was talking to himself in an empty cabin - as he answers her question. “I’ve always been able to see ghosts. Ever since I was small.”

And so they’re off. Miranda wants to know everything: can a ghost change what clothes they’re wearing? Silver hasn’t seen it. Do animals have ghosts? Silver has seen a few dead pets, but rarely things like cattle or wild birds. Has he ever seen a ghost hold something, like an object? Only if someone’s heart failed while reading a book, or died with a gun in their hand or something like that, he explains.

“Have you ever met anyone else who can see ghosts, like you?”

Silver shakes his head, the pauses.“Although, for all I know, I might’ve, and they too thought it wise to keep it a secret.”

Miranda frowns, giving him a thoughtful, almost pitying expression. “It must be a rather lonely life.”

Silver looks away, fidgeting with a loose thread on his trousers. Or, rather, the trousers of that Spaniard Flint killed all those weeks ago. “I suppose.”

“I know a thing or two about loneliness,” Miranda says, and when he looks back at her there is nothing but warmth in her eyes, dead though they may be. 

He believes her, but part of him wants to argue: how can she know true loneliness, when she’s had Flint all these years? When she’s had someone to call her own? But for once, he holds his tongue, and simply gives her a strained smile. He knows that his pain doesn’t invalidate her own, that he’s just being self-pitying and overly dramatic. 

It seems he has nothing but time for self-reflection, lately. He doesn’t enjoy it.

“Say, shall I tell you about the time I met John Donne?” he says, because he doesn’t much care to think about the isolation he experienced growing up, or indeed Miranda’s own struggles. John Silver is nothing if not willing to ruin the moment. 

“As a ghost?” Miranda asks, her curiosity piqued and that mischievous glint back in her eyes. 

“‘Death be not proud,’ isn’t it? Christ, was it true for that poor sod. Never did I see a sorrier ghost.”

Miranda laughs delightedly, shaking her head in amusement. “You do know that’s not what the poem is about, don’t you?”

Silver shushes her, smirking. “Hush. Don’t you want to hear the story? Now, let me see...it was the summer of 1700. I wasn’t much more than a lad, really, and I was walking through Piccadilly Circus when I heard the most ghastly of coughs…”

He weaves her a ludicrous tale, in which he and the sickly, dribbling spirit of the famous poet go and track down the ghosts of his twelve children - one of whom, as it turns out, is hiding in the London catacombs - and finally his long-suffering wife. It’s near lunchtime by the time he’s reunited Donne with the family, all fourteen of them disappearing in a burst of light, finally at peace and together at last.

Miranda is still smiling when he finishes, looking surprisingly fond for someone who’s known him for so little a time.

“I do believe you’ve made that up,” she says, though not accusingly. She sounds amused, actually. “I thoroughly enjoyed it, don’t misunderstand me, but it’s absolute horseshit.”

Silver barks out a laugh at that, oddly thrilled. He hadn’t been necessarily  _ trying _ to convince her his tale was true, but that she never once fell for his usual tricks is a delight.

In truth, he’s never been to England, despite the put-upon, practiced accent that has become instinctual, and despite the many, many lies he’s told about an orphanage in Whitechapel. He's never been further east than Dublin.

“You’ve got me there. In truth, the most famous ghost I ever saw was the spectre of Henry Morgan.”

“Really?” Miranda seems suspicious so soon after his blatant lies, but curious nonetheless. “What was he like?”

“I have no idea. I took one look, and ran in the other direction.”

They both dissolve into laughter, Miranda letting out a horribly unladylike but terribly endearing snort as she giggles. 

“That,” she says once she’s calmed down some, “I can definitely believe.”

 

*****

 

For all that Silver enjoys spending time with Miranda, their brief moments of levity are not enough to detract from the fact that they are both recovering from the events of Charlestown: Silver from the loss of his leg and in some ways his freedom; and Miranda from the loss of not only her life, but her future. 

“That first night,” Miranda says on their fourth day together, when Silver is feeling particularly maudlin and isn’t up for a tale, “I raged.”

“I don’t blame you,” Silver says, staring out the window as it slowly starts to rain. “I’d be pissed, too, if I died like that.”

“I died screaming, you know,” she says, and Silver pauses, looking back at her in surprise. He can’t imagine her raising her voice at all. “Years of anger, pent up and righteous, just - spilled out of me, unstoppable, and then I was dead. I - appeared, I suppose, just as James had begun his attack on Charlestown. I thought maybe knowing Peter Ashe was dead, watching the city burn, would be enough to quell that rage, but when Charlestown was ashes and the flames had finally ebbed, James was still alone, and I was still dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, because what else could he possibly say?

“James went down to the hold and tore it apart, and in my anger - I joined him. Boxes he had barely touched would crash against the wall in pieces, lanterns exploded… I’m surprised James didn’t notice.”

“It’s amazing, the things grief blinds us to.” 

“My god, I’ve never known such anger. The satisfaction I felt, in the hold - I wanted to destroy everything, I wanted to - ”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get stuck like that,” Silver says, mostly to try and distract her. She looks so distraught, so conflicted. “Some spirits get lost in their fury, their grief, and become violent beyond reason. They lose themselves completely.”

“Poltergeists?” Miranda asks, and he nods.

“I think,” and here he pauses, because it’s not as though she’s asked for his opinion, and certainly they’ve avoided talking about Flint before now. But still… “You have a right to that anger. And in the coming months I have a feeling Flint will do what he can to satisfy that anger, in your memory. You wanted to watch the world bleed, and he’s prepared to play executioner. But I believe you’re here because Flint needs you, just as you are. Not just your anger, not just your pain, but your love, too.  _ He’s _ the one in danger of getting lost, I think.”

“And that concerns you?” Miranda asks.

He grimaces, slightly insulted. He’s not  _ completely _ heartless. “Of course it does. Flint is my captain.”

“Just your captain?” she asks, an odd look on her face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, frowning, but Billy comes into the cabin before he can get a straight answer out of her.

  
  


*****

 

Sharing a cabin with Flint isn’t too terrible, Silver supposes.

That softness Silver had glimpsed when he first woke after Charlestown is all but gone: Flint has perhaps a little more respect for him, and certainly has sympathy for his pain, but it’s clear that he still trusts Silver about as far as he can throw him. He definitely suspects that Silver played a role in selling the gold’s location to Rackham, though he seems to be waiting for them to reach Nassau before he acts on that suspicion. 

For the most part, Flint and Silver keep to themselves. Flint is rarely in his cabin, anyway, probably doing his best to keep himself distracted from his grief. When he  _ is _ there, he barely speaks to Silver beyond asking about his leg politely. Silver’s mostly fine with this arrangement; he frankly doesn’t have the energy to deal with Flint’s moods, understandable though they may be.

So no, sharing a cabin with Flint isn’t particularly uncomfortable. Until the night before they arrive in Nassau. 

If he wanted to, he supposes he could blame it on Miranda. She’d asked him, just before dinner, what his parents had thought of his ‘gift.’ He’d brushed it off with some lie about never knowing his mother, about a father who’d run off while he was still a babe, and hadn’t given it any more thought than that.

He dreams, that night, of bloody hands and booze-filled breaths, of glass shattering at tiny, bare feet.

When he wakes, his cheeks are wet, his throat is raw, and Flint’s hand is on his shoulder. He’s still trying to catch his breath, to shake the images, when Flint speaks, hesitant.

“You were shouting,” he says simply, as if he needs to explain why he’d wake Silver from a nightmare. 

“Who for?” Silver asks, though he suspects the answer.

“None of my business, who for,” Flint responds, which means, whoever it was, Flint has decided not to touch the subject with a ten foot pole. His hand is still on Silver’s shoulder, his thumb running back and forth almost absent-mindedly.

“Well, I’m sorry to have woken you, captain. Lord knows you don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

“I was already awake,” Flint says, gesturing to the open book at his desk. Silver frowns, and when he looks closer, he notices the skin around Flint’s eyes is blotchy and red. He, too, has been ruminating on the past tonight, Silver would wager. 

Miranda’s presence, watching forlornly from the corner, is stifling. 

“Flint, I - I don’t know if I’ve been able to tell you how sorry I am about -”

Flint straightens up abruptly and turns away from him, walking back to his desk. Silver cuts himself off when he slams the book shut a tad too aggressively.

“I think I’ll try and get some shuteye before we reach Nassau’s waters. I have Rackham’s head to take, after all.”

Silver can feel his face fall, and he’s grateful that Flint hasn’t bothered to look for a reaction. He’d thought they were having a moment, then, but, as is always the case when it comes to Flint, he’d been wrong. 

He’s been staring up at the ceiling for what feels like hours, too afraid of his own mind to risk falling asleep again, when Miranda finally speaks. 

“I’m sorry, for pushing you earlier. For asking you about your past.”

Flint fell asleep some time ago, and so Silver feels safe in answering her. “What makes you so sure it was you who prompted that dream?”

The look she gives Silver is not unlike the one she so often gives Flint: filled with regret, and sorrow, and - much worse - understanding.

“You were calling for your father.”

 

*****

 

“Miranda,” Silver says carefully once Flint has left for the morning, no doubt going to micro-manage every call De Groot makes as they sail for Nassau’s ever closer port. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

They’re reading together: Miranda likes to hover behind Silver while he thumbs through whichever book Billy has handed him on any particular day. Today it’s something called  _ El Burlador de Sevilla  _ (“A play about a trickster,  _ for _ a trickster,” Miranda had laughed). Silver is not so fast of a reader as Miranda - who’d had actual, proper schooling - and so she every time patiently waits for Silver to finish reading before demanding he turn to the next page. Sometimes he turns them agonizingly slowly on purpose, just to make her laugh or groan.

“Yes, dear?” She says, smiling fondly, if distractedly, from where she’s peering his shoulder. No one’s called him by any sort of endearment in - well, in a long while. And certainly no one’s ever called him dear. He likes it more than he should. He likes  _ Miranda _ more than he should, for that matter.

“It’s about ghosts,” he says, closing the book and turning to face her fully. “And...well, what happens when we reach Nassau.”

This gets Miranda’s full attention.

He takes a deep breath, and bites the bullet. “I have never, in all my life, seen a ghost leave the place in which they first manifested. They tend to remain where they died.”

It takes less than a moment for Miranda’s sharp mind to piece together what he’s implied. “Are you - does that mean - I’m going to remain on this warship, whether I want to or not?”

Silver nods.

Her face twists into a vicious snarl, and Silver suddenly sees some resemblance of Flint in her; both he and Miranda, when they grow angry, feel it in their entire bodies. She’s shaking in her rage, flickering in and out of view with the intensity of it. 

“Ten years I spent trapped in that  _ fucking _ house, on that  _ fucking _ island,” she says, her voice rising with each word. The empty mug on Flint’s desk starts to rattle. Books quiver on the shelves. Silver tries to surreptitiously scoot further away from her, but he’s so focused on Miranda that he momentarily forgets his leg: he stops moving almost immediately, grimacing in pain. Miranda doesn’t notice.

“And now, even in death, there is some new cage for me!” She shouts, and Silver finally, truly sees the anger she must have felt just before she died, the righteous,  _ burning _ rage that simmered below the surface near constantly. 

“Miranda…” he starts nervously, as Flint’s hammock bed smacks against the wall aggressively.

“I will not be shackled here, like some wailing widow haunting a - ”

“Miranda!” He says, louder this time, because the light fixture on the wall has been ripped off, flying past him with such speed he barely manages to avoid getting hit. If she doesn’t calm down soon, she’s going to get lost.

He can’t go through this, he can’t lie helpless and watch as the world around him implodes, can’t listen to the screams, not again -

“Miranda, please,” he repeats softly, and despite his best efforts some of the fear he’s feeling seeps into his voice. 

It’s this quiet plea that finally gets through to Miranda. She looks at him, the storm still in her dark eyes, and frowns. The thunder and lightning and the howling winds of her anger pass, and all that’s left is a hollow sadness. 

“I’m sorry John, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He shrugs, though he’s still shaking slightly. “I’d have been angry too.”

“I was just - it’s so unfair.”

“I don’t disagree.”

They stay there for a time, Miranda quietly working through her indignation and Silver focusing on getting his hands to stay steady. Once he’s sure she’s in a slightly better place, he speaks again.

“The real question is, how the  _ fuck _ am I going to explain what happened in here?”

 

*****

 

It’s painful to say goodbye to Miranda as he disembarks, knowing he may never see her or hear her laugh again. Howell had been adamant that he remained in a bed, though, without the sea tossing him about, for the next several weeks, at least while negotiations were being held. 

As quartermaster, he should be present for those meetings, but he cannot find it within himself to particularly care about the outcome. 

As soon as he’s been put to bed in the brothel (sans whores, though he’s hardly been in the mood as of late), he requests an audience with Max, who gives him a rare genuine smile upon entering.

“I’ve put aside - ”

“I don’t want it,” he interrupts, fingers playing with the frayed edges of the blanket on his lap. “Give it to someone else, or spread it out amongst yourselves.”

Max pauses for a moment, utterly baffled, before smoothing her expression into something more sympathetic. “Silver, I understand you must be under an enormous amount of stress. You’ve been through so much in so little time, and - ”

He cuts her off again, meeting her eyes with his own red-rimmed ones. “I don’t. Want it. I’m the Walrus’s quartermaster now, I can’t - I can’t squirrel away some small fortune that I  _ stole _ from them. God, what sort of person would that make me?”

Max’s eyes narrow, assessing him shrewdly. Absently, he thinks, she and Miranda would have gotten along. “You never much cared what people thought of you before, or indeed what kind of a man you were.”

He shrugs, looking away from her and toward his stump of a leg. “Things change.”

He needs that crew, those men who  _ believe in him,  _ far more than he needs that gold. There’s few people in the world who would put their faith in a crippled thief, he knows, and he intends to hold onto this as long as he can.

Max nods in understanding, turning to go. She stops at the door, however. “I know you think this is the only way, and I will not try to change your mind. But - there is a world beyond Captain Flint. Take care not to get lost in him.”

She takes her leave at that, and Silver just barely manages to restrain himself from throwing something at the door. 

It’s not about Flint. 

It  _ isn’t _ . 

He sighs, almost immediately starting to second guess himself. He’s just made what will probably be the biggest mistake of his life (other than, of course, refusing to give up those  _ fucking _ names), given up everything he’s ever wanted, his  _ freedom _ , and for what? 

So some bedraggled, murdering pirates might call him  _ brother _ .

What has become of him?

“So you  _ were _ lying,” a voice says, and Silver lets out an alarmed yell, flailing and falling out of bed with a sharp thud. The agony that laces up his leg is sharp and swift, though he was lucky to land mostly on his good side. 

He’s still gaping up at Miranda when Flint barges in. “What happened?” he asks, sword drawn as if expecting some sort of threat. This is, of course, a logical explanation, as opposed to the truth of the matter, which is that Flint’s dead lover simply scared the living hell out of Silver.

“I - uh - was reaching for a book,” Silver says through gritted teeth, clutching his leg as if it will make any sort of difference. There’s a bookshelf in the room, after all, and what else would he be trying to do? Walk? Take a piss? 

Flint stares at him for a moment, as if he cannot comprehend how stupid his quartermaster is, before letting out a put-upon sigh and sheathing his weapon. 

“Billy’s already left you a pile of books,” he says, pointing to the small stack on the bedside table. 

Right. Shit.

“I...uh...was in the mood for some philosophy?” he tries, and Flint gives him an unimpressed look. Still, he reaches down and helps Silver back into bed, so that’s something, at least. 

“Sometimes, John Silver,” Flint says as he plucks a copy of Plato’s  _ Symposium _ from the bookcase (and really, Silver’s just lucky that there actually  _ was _ philosophy on the shelves. He probably has Rackham to thank for that) and brings it back over to the bed, “I think you might be the strangest man I’ve ever met.”

Miranda lets out a quite-unladylike snort at that, and Silver sighs, thunking his skull against the headboard. It doesn’t do much to quell his frustration, but the throbbing in his head  _ does _ distract from the pain in his leg.

“You have no idea,” he replies, and Flint leaves him at that, without so much as a goodbye. Not one for pleasantries, his captain.

As soon as the door is closed, he whips his head about to face Miranda, who’s floating cross-legged next to the bed. “What are you  _ doing _ here?” he hisses, incredulous. 

She shrugs, clearly not as concerned with the situation as Silver. This happens, he’s noticed, with ghosts; nothing ever seems as urgent when one isn’t alive anymore. 

“You told me I would have to stay on the man-of-war, but as soon as James got far enough onto shore, it was like an invisible string pulled me after him. I held off following as long as I could, but it really was quite impossible for me to stay away. I suppose I’m here now because he’s only across the street in the tavern.”

He stares at her, completely aghast. Everything he knows about ghosts is a lie. Miranda is being remarkably calm about this, considering he’s supposed to be her resource on all things ghost-related. Silver’s never heard of a ghost being tied to a  _ person _ before, but it would seem that Miranda’s spirit is not tethered to the Spanish warship, like Joshua and Randall, but Flint himself. 

Silver has another little epiphany, and bangs his head once again against the board behind him, feeling like a complete idiot. He should have realized sooner that something about her situation was off: she died in Charlestown, after all, nowhere near the man-of-war where Silver first saw her. 

Something occurs to him, then.

“But, if ghosts can attach themselves to people, then why didn’t my - ” He cuts himself off, unwilling to share something so personal or indeed to voice the thought at all.

The look Miranda gives him seems terribly knowing, but for once she doesn’t press him.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” she soothes. “You said I was here to resolve some kind of unfinished business, yes? Well, clearly that business is connected to James. That’s all.”

That’s all, she says, like Silver’s entire worldview hasn’t tilted. “Why didn’t you come see me sooner? We left the warship hours ago.”

“Well, I was making new acquaintances, of course. There’s a great deal more ghosts in Nassau than on that ship, you know, Mister Silver. Now it will be  _ you _ who has to fight for  _ my _ attention.” She replies with a teasing smile. “I even met one of your former crewmates, if I’m not mistaken. He’s downstairs with his lover, also a ghost.”

Silver frowns. The last time he’d seen Logan and Charlotte, they’d just been murdered and were screaming at him in hysterics as he’d tiptoed over their bodies and pretended not to hear, busy scheming with Max. He doubts he’d endeared himself to them. 

“They seem quite happy to spend eternity haunting this place,” she says, and Silver raises a brow. He’d always thought Charlotte had just been indulging Logan’s romantic fantasies for some extra coin. Still, he supposes being brutally murdered together might forge a deeper bond. “Say, did you know ghosts can have sex?”

Silver does, in fact know this. He’s known this far longer than he’s comfortable with. Ghosts, or at least the friskier ones, like to take advantage of the fact that no one can see them, which means that he will, on occasion, encounter some freaky ghost sex out in the middle of the road, or in a crowded tavern. It’s amazing, what inhibilitions people lose when no one’s watching. 

“Yes,” he says, but holds up a hand when she opens her mouth. “I don’t want to hear about Logan’s sex life! He talked about it more than enough when he was alive, thank you very much.”

“Then would you prefer to talk about that discussion you had with the madam just now?”

Silver grimaces, slouching down against his pillows in an attempt to seem smaller, more pitiful. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Silver says, refusing to meet her eyes. They’re friends now, yes, but Flint will always be her priority. What good would it do, to explain himself to someone so firmly entrenched on the other side?

“Perhaps an explanation? You did betray James, after all, if I’m inferring correctly,” Miranda says, and she looks so patient, so calm, not at all accusing or angry. He can’t tell if this is simply the result of her good breeding or if she genuinely isn’t cross with him.

Still, he stalls. “Isn’t it enough that I gave up my share? Isn’t that evidence of where my loyalties lie?”

“Why are you so hesitant to answer me?” Miranda asks. “ Who am I going to tell? The drunk who died forty years ago?”

He rolls over onto his good side, facing away from her. “I was angry, and feeling reckless, so I lied to Flint. I sold the Urca’s location to Max. It was a selfish thing to do, but I am by and large a selfish person.”

Silver feels a sudden chill as Miranda glides through him, lowering herself until she’s eye level with him on the bed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me? What happened to my great storyteller?”

Silver closes his eyes, letting out a sigh. “Miranda, leave it.”

When he opens them again, she’s hardly a foot from his face, scrutinizing him intensely. “Not this time, I’m afraid, John. You’ve told me what you did, but not why, and I think that’s a rather crucial part of this particular tale.”

He sits up then, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his thighs, running his hands through his hair in agitation. 

“Fine.  _ Fine _ . You know, you’re just like him, sometimes. You both just  _ have _ to get your way,” he snaps at her, though he knows it’s not her fault. He doesn’t like to think about that night. It stirs up too many doubts, too many unresolved issues.

Miranda frowns. “John - ”

“Flint used me. He needed my help to corral the men, and he knew it, so he lied to me about his intentions to hunt the Urca. And you know, I could have forgiven it, I suppose, if he hadn’t then taken it upon himself to remind me how desperately  _ I _ needed  _ him _ . It’s not the most pleasant thing, Miranda, to have your only ally remind you how pathetically alone you are in the world, to remind you how little you matter to anyone.”

“I’m sure - ”

“I realized, that night, while you were waiting for Abigail to arrive at the tavern, when Hornigold nearly took the Walrus, that I was worthless to him. After everything we had gone through, everything  _ I’d _ gone through to gain his trust and protect his captaincy, I was just another pawn in his games. Easily discarded. I’d thought - ” He cuts himself off. He’d thought that they had been approaching something like friendship, that Flint might have actually given a shit not just about what he had to say, but about  _ him _ . “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong, and I was angry, and that’s why I went to Max.”

It’s exhausting, how Silver’s constantly had to show his worth to Flint, to find new ways to be useful, for fear of being cast aside. He’ll have to work twice as hard now, he knows, to prove that his merits as a quartermaster outweigh the inconvenience of keeping an invalid aboard the Walrus.

He’s breathing heavily by the end of his little rant, glaring at Miranda simply because she’s there and Flint isn’t. She’s silent for a time, giving him that same searching look, the one that always makes him feel so exposed and uneasy. When she finally speaks, it isn’t some defense of Flint’s behavior, as he’d expected.

“I hadn’t realized you cared so much what he thought of you,” she says quietly, questioningly, and he flinches. This is why he prefers to just leave his issues buried. Talking about the things that haunt (no pun intended) him brings nothing but pain. It leaves him too vulnerable, too open. 

So he does what he does best, and avoids the topic. “I know he’s important to you. I didn’t want to upset you. ”

This time it’s Miranda who cuts Silver off. “John, I have no illusions when it comes to the kind of man James is. In fact, I consider myself partially responsible for what Captain Flint has become over the years. There is more to him than what you know, yes, but I knew and loved the flaws just as much as the virtues.”

Morley had told him, of course, about the Maria Alleyne, about “the Barlow woman” and her agenda. But Silver has never really considered just how much Miranda contributed to the mythos of the infamous Captain Flint. She knew him  _ before _ , after all. She’d been right beside him as he’d built himself up into the scourge of the seas. 

Howell comes in before he can respond, and the conversation, for the time being, is left alone. Miranda takes the opportunity to go test how far her tether will allow her to go from Flint, and so when the doctor takes his leave Silver is left to either rest or read fucking Plato. 

It’s as he’s lying down, trying to sleep, that he allows himself to finish that awful, heartbreaking thought, the one he so desperately tried to avoid voicing with Miranda. 

If ghosts really can attach themselves to people, if they really can move beyond the place where they died, then why did his mother leave him alone in that wretched place?

 

*****

 

_ He’s five years old when he runs into their ramshackle house, singing and tittering to himself, only to find his mother lying on the ground in a pool of red.  _

_ “She slipped,” Papi says in a language he’ll have all but forgotten by the time he’s fifteen. “Tripped and hit her head.” _

_ He doesn’t believe Papi, because Papi never means what he says, Mami told him. Mami told him that Papi doesn’t mean it when he slaps him, or when he shouts and calls him names, and so he knows that Papi isn’t telling the truth when he says that Mami fell.  _

_ He can’t put voice to any of the questions spinning through his mind, though, too busy kneeling next to Mami, too busy shaking her shoulders, trying to wake her even as the blood around her head spreads into a stained halo like in the pictures he sees on the fancy church windows in town. _

_ He doesn’t have long to miss her. He sees her hovering over his bed that very night, illuminating his little corner of the room. He pops up like a shot, beaming from ear to ear at the sight of her, and she stares at him in astonishment. _

_ “I’d always thought your friend Solomon was imaginary,” she says, looking at Silver’s half-there playmate as he prances around with his little kitty, a swirl of shiny blue surrounding them as they dance in circles.  _

_ “I told you,” he tells Mami, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Solomon lived in this house before us with his  _ _ àvia _ _. But then he got the pox, and his  _ _ àvia _ _ didn’t like living here without Solomon no more, so now we live here.” _

_ Mami’s hair is awfully shiny, and she tells him it’s just because she went swimming up in heaven before she came to visit him. He thinks of that little red halo on the floor, and says nothing. _

_ He spends his days playing with Mami and Solomon and Solomon’s cat, Gordito, and pretends not to notice the way Papi’s eyes get redder and redder as time passes, the way they go glassy and far away the few times he stops to look at him, or how his hands are all shaky when they reach for another bottle.  _

_ Papi leaves for work just before sunrise, and comes home just before sundown. Papi doesn’t pay him much attention, but that’s just fine. But sometimes Papi will tell him to sit at the table and eat his supper like a big boy, and so he sits and chatters as Papi grunts and mostly ignores him.  _

_ “Mami says spring will come soon,” he says, munching on his stale bread happily, and he doesn’t notice how Papi’s hands have gone still around his drink. “She says the snow will melt, and then the flowers will grow. What color will the flowers be, Papi?” _

_ “Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Papi says angrily, standing and snatching what’s left of the roll from his tiny hands. “She’s not some imaginary playmate, like your fucking Little boy.” _

_ He doesn’t talk about Mami again for two whole weeks after that, but he’s small and easily excited and he forgets the rule one evening while Papi’s almost asleep in his chair, bottle slipping from his loose fingertips. _

_ “Mami says if I’m extra good maybe you and me can go to the market tomorrow, Papi, cause you don’t got work.” He says it real casual, just like he practiced all day, and Papi sits up straighter and throws the bottle at his feet. The cold whiskey burns as it seeps into the cuts on his tiny toes. _

_ He slips up a few more times, and he only gets little smacked around for it a little. But then he makes the mistake of repeating the words Mami says to Papi when she thinks he’s too distracted with Solomon to hear. _

_ “Mami says it was an accident,” he says, drawing little pictures in the dust on the floor. The flowers were purple when they came, but he just has to imagine the colors as he traces his fingers through the grime. “She says she knows you didn’t mean it, says she shouldn’t have yelled at you.” _

_ Papi drops the mug in his hands, the metal of it clanking loudly against the wooden table. “What the fuck did you say?” _

_ “Mami says she’s not mad at you.” He’s not looking at Papi, but he should be. If he did he’d see that Papi’s got that look in his eyes, the one he had that day Mami was lying on the floor. “She knows it wasn’t on purpose, nope nope nope. She says it was her fault for yelling. She knows you didn’t mean to push her so hard, she says.” _

_ “Demon boy,” Papi whispers, and for a long, silent moment he just stands there, still as a stone.  Then Papi grabs him by the shirt, starts to tug him toward the door. But Mami starts to yell real loud, hollering and screaming and saying all sorts of nasty words that he thought only daddies could say, and he’s covering his ears and asking Mami to please stop and Papi’s looking at him like he’s something scary - _

_ The windows shatter suddenly, like Mami’s so angry the house is angry too, and there are bottles flying against the wall and Mami’s still screaming even as Papi’s dragging him away and Solomon is staring out the open door, reaching out to him.  _

_ Papi drags him through the empty streets, until his bare feet are caked in mud, until his collar is stretched and torn. They stop when the moon is at its highest point, right above their heads, in front of a set of big iron gates. One day he’ll be able to read those big letters at the top, know they say St. John’s Home for Orphan Boys, but right now he’s just frightened and confused, and Papi won’t tell him what’s happening no matter how he pleads. _

_ Papi tosses him onto the steps of the big dark building. “God have mercy on you,” Papi spits out, and walks away, closing the gates behind him and latching it closed.  _

_ He chases after Papi, screaming and crying and begging him to come back. He’s too short to reach the latch and push it open. So he’s left to wail and shake and pull at the gates uselessly until some strange men in black take his tired hands and bring him inside. _

_ He can’t answer their questions, doesn’t understand a word of the language they speak, so they put him in a room with two dozen other wide-eyed boys, and decide as they look at his tired, tear-stained face, to call him Cillian. _

 

*****

 

Silver doesn’t see Miranda again for two days. He figures it’s for one of three reasons: one, Flint went back to his house inland, and she simply can’t see Silver until he returns; two, she’s out acquainting herself with the ghosts she hasn’t met yet and no doubt endearing herself to them; or three, she really is much angrier than she’d let on about the gold situation. He’d like to think it’s one of the first two, but despite all the time they’d spent together on the man-of-war, he still doesn’t really know her all that well.

Max stops by on what will be his third Miranda-less night, just as the sun has set. “I’ve brought you something,” she says with a smirk. “To lift your maudlin thoughts and perhaps distract from the pain some.”

It goes unsaid, but whatever this is, it’s probably a thank you for handing over the information in the first place. She’s a rich woman now, thanks to his treachery. 

Max steps aside, and - oh, it’s the girl from that first day. Idelle, that’s her name. God, but that feels like a lifetime ago. 

“You two seemed to get along well, the last time we were all together,” Max says, and - well, fair enough he supposes. They both got off, after all. 

She leaves them, and Idelle gives him a cocky smirk that, before, would have made his blood run hot with anticipation. Now, though, he barely feels anything, beyond the simple observation that she is just as beautiful as he’d remembered.

Silver props himself up on his elbows, just taking her in for a moment before he has to speak and ruin the mood. “I uh - I can’t really do much, at the moment.”

He gestures to his lower half with what he hopes is an apologetic look. He’s irritated, yes, but with his own limitations, not her. He doesn’t want Idelle to think he’s harboring any resentment toward her.

“Oh, right. I guess you can’t really fuck like that. I could ride you?” she offers, matter of fact, blunt in that practiced way most whores are when it comes to sex. He shakes his head in the negative. Howell had given him an exhaustive list of things he wasn’t allowed to do while staying in the brothel. The list had included several sexual positions Silver hadn’t even heard of. She hums, thinking. “I could sit on your face for awhile. You certainly liked that last time.”

He huffs out a laugh. If ever there was a way to get a man out of his head… 

It is, of course, while he’s half-hard and tongue-deep in Idelle’s cunt that Miranda reappears, right fucking next to his head. He doesn’t even notice until she starts speaking.

“Goodness, you’ve kept busy, haven’t you?”

He startles, badly enough that Idelle starts to move off him, asking if he’s alright. He doesn’t respond, just pulls her back to him, pushing her down until he can barely breathe, until he can get a better angle at her clit.  _ Fucking _ Miranda, choosing now, of all times, when his mind is finally fucking calm, to pay him a visit. She’ll just have to deal with Idelle’s presence, because if there’s one thing John Silver is not, it’s a bad lay. 

“It’s so nice to see a man  _ enjoy _ this, don’t you think? So many men think it a hardship, but how can it be, when she looks like that? Why, it’s a blessing to have a woman this way, to watch from below and worship at her altar as she comes undone,” Miranda says softly, and _ Jesus fuck _ , what does she think she’s playing at? He groans against Idelle as he listens to her whisper filthy, reverent things to him, couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. 

“You know,” Miranda goes on, and if Silver doesn’t know if he wants her to shut the fuck up or keep talking until his face is completely drenched. “I thought I might come over here and offer you some advice, tell you just how she’d like it, but you seem to have it well in hand. The noises she’s making, they’re loud enough to keep James awake next door.”

And - fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, _ fuck _ \- the thought of Flint, lying in bed just on the other side of the wall, listening to Silver - as he’s - 

He moans desperately, feels his cock start to swell further against his stomach, and the noise Miranda lets out is far too intrigued for his liking. 

“Well, isn’t that a pleasant surprise,” she says delightedly, and this time the groan he lets out is mostly annoyance, not that Idelle would know the difference from where she sits. 

Used to be that making a woman moan and clench around his tongue was enough to get him hard as a fucking rock, just like that. Max had even told him, after his encounter with “Blackbeard” and the others, that he’d endeared himself somewhat to the girls for how enthusiastically he’d taken to the task, for how eager he’d been to get them off. He doesn’t want to give too much thought to why it’s the thought of his bloody  _ captain _ getting him there now, making something burn low and fierce in his gut. 

Idelle is silent when she comes, a rare thing for a whore. He’s grateful, a little, that she hasn’t bothered to put on a show for him, that she’s taking her pleasure without pretense. He’s had enough of pretense to last him a lifetime, and he’ll surely have more of it before his time as quartermaster is over. 

She offers to suck him off, but he says no, says it’ll jostle his leg too badly. He has no idea if it’s true, but she seems to take his word for it. But before she goes, as she passes him a wet rag to wipe his face with, she gives him a far too knowing look. 

Why do all the women in his life look at him like that?

“I know I’m not who you would have chosen, if you could have had your pick,” she says, and he doesn’t miss the look she gives to the wall behind his head, where Flint is apparently trying to sleep. He’d had no fucking idea the captain was there, truly. “But it was nice not to do the work for once.” 

A kiss on his cheek, and she’s gone, leaving him alone with Miranda. 

“Well, that was certainly - ”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He thumps back against his pillows with an embarrassed groan, covering his face with his hands. How is she being so casual about this? Miranda Barlow must be the single most unflappable woman who ever lived. 

Except maybe Idelle.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, you know,” Miranda says, and something in her tone gives him pause. It’s like there’s some unknown weight behind her words, like she’s said them before and means them all the more for it. He peeks at her through his fingers, and there isn’t a trace of that teasing playfulness anymore.

“I know there’s nothing to be ashamed of, because nothing happened.”

“John, it’s all right to admit you’re attracted to James.”

He sits up then, because why the fuck would she put voice to it? Doesn’t she know there’s power in words, even if no one else can hear them?

“Are you out of your _ fucking mind?”  _ he hisses, chucking a pillow at her. It sails through her of course, doesn’t make a single difference, but he feels a little better for it. “I can’t just go around lusting after my  _ fucking captain! _ A captain who, in case you’ve forgotten, finds me intolerable.”

Miranda, as per fucking usual, does not react at all in the way he expects to his perfectly reasonable outburst. She floats her way over to his bed, sits on the edge delicately, and purses her lips thoughtfully.

“So it’s not the thought of being with a man that’s unsettling to you, but the thought of being with James?”

He doesn’t even know where to start with that. “There are no thoughts of being with him! In any sense of the word! No thoughts!”

“Have you been with a man before, John?” Miranda asks, a strange glint in her eye, and really, she is far too interested in this.

“I don’t see what that has to do with - ”

“Was it just a tryst? Two men seeking comfort on a long journey at sea? Or was there real affection there? Did you love him?”

He lets out a snort before he can help himself. “Well, I was certainly fond of the coin he gave me afterward,” he says snidely. That had been the first steady income he’d ever had, spending his nights on his knees in back alleys. It had been slightly more difficult, in the winter, but - oh, shit. 

He glances over at Miranda, and sure enough, she’s staring at him like she’s never seen him before, completely blindsided. “I - I didn’t - ”

At his nervous stammering, Miranda’s shocked expression shifts into something softer, more reassuring. She reaches out to place her hand over his, letting out a sigh when she simply phases through him. Still, he appreciates the gesture. “I told you before: it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed,” he snaps immediately, defensive. And it’s true. He did what he had to do, did the best he could with the hand he’d been dealt. There’s no shame in trying to survive, and he knows any one of the girls working here would agree with him. “I’m just - it’s not something I’d want spread around, either.”

Especially not now, after the men just gave him their votes. No one wants a whore for a quartermaster, retired or not. 

“Well, I certainly don’t think less of you for it, and neither would James, if he knew.”

He huffs out a sigh, flopping back down. Back to Flint, it is. “Miranda, even if he did know -  _ which he never will _ \- it wouldn’t matter, because there’s nothing between us.”

Miranda looks between his face and his flagging erection with a raised brow.

“That was a fluke!”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “I suppose I could leave it be. For now.”

He lifts his hands as if in thanks to God, and closes his eyes. 

“You know, for such a short man you really do have a lovely cock,” Miranda says conversationally, and Silver throws another pillow across the room, his cheeks beet red.

 

*****

 

Silver has absolutely no idea how Rackham managed to convince Flint not to flay him alive for stealing the gold from under him. He almost wishes he’d been there, if only to have seen the look on Flint’s face as Rackham had waffled on for what was likely far too long.

He’s been bedridden for two weeks, with hardly any company to keep him entertained: only Miranda; Howell during check-in; and Idelle, when she has a spare moment and comes to gossip with him (Dufresne, he’d been delighted to learn from Idelle, has a pitifully small cock). As lovely as Miranda and sometimes-Idelle are, Silver’s just about ready to crawl his way out of this godforsaken room on his elbows, and now Flint has walked in and declared the deal brokered. 

“We’re to start our raids on the mainland in the next few weeks, so you’d best rest up,” he says, and he starts to leave, as if Silver isn’t worth any more of his time than is absolutely necessary.

Well, fuck that.

“I’ve done nothing  _ but _ rest for two  _ fucking _ weeks!” he says, perhaps a tad too loud. He takes a deep, calming breath, so as to avoid yelling at his captain. “Those men made me their quartermaster. So let me be their quartermaster.”

Flint turns to him then, giving him an assessing, thoughtful look. It’s the most attention he’s given him in some time, since before that night with Idelle, and fuck if Silver doesn’t feel more alive than he has in days. Something about Flint’s eyes, the way he stares at him,  _ through _ him, has always set Silver ablaze, made his heart pound.

“For fuck’s sake, James, give him something to do. He’s read _ Romeo and Juliet  _ six times, and he doesn’t even  _ like _ it,” Miranda pipes up, as if it’ll make a difference. Silver’s grown so used to her presence that it takes a moment for him to remember not to make a scathing comment about over-dramatic, sexually frustrated teenagers while Flint is still in the room.

Finally, Flint seems to come to a decision. “We need a dozen or so new crewman, to replace the ones we lost in Charlestown. At least four competent riggers, and I’d say six men capable of joining the vanguard. I was going to do some recruiting at the tavern: do you think you could manage the journey across the square? It would be good to have your input on this matter,  given how closely you’ll be working with whomever we choose.”

Silver, in all honesty, has no idea if he can make it to tavern without his leg giving out.

“Yes, of course,” he lies, willing to risk humiliating himself in public if it means getting out of the fucking brothel for even an hour. 

Flint nods, and leaves without another word. Silver would be annoyed at his sudden departure if he couldn’t hear Flint moving around in the room next door, looking for something. He reappears with a pair of crutches moments later.

“I - have you had those  _ this entire time?” _ Silver asks, torn between incredulity and irritation. His freedom had been _ right fucking there, _ on the other side of the wall.

“Stop pouting. It’s unbecoming for a quartermaster,” Flint replies.

It takes nearly half an hour for Silver to make it to the tavern, and by the time he does his good leg is shaking from the effort, his brow is covered in sweat, and his stump is in agony. Flint, to his credit, simply waits patiently, walking slowly next to him as Silver struggles and pants and tries not to scream out of frustration with his own hateful body. 

Miranda is with him every step of the way, whispering encouragements and platitudes as he stumbles and swears. He’s almost embarrassed at how comforting he finds it.

Flint orders a bottle of rum as soon as they’ve sat down, and Silver is pathetically grateful for the alcohol as it burns the back of his throat. 

“I thought you said you could manage the journey,” Flint finally says, once Silver has drunk enough to dull his pain just a little. 

“I made it, didn't I?” Silver says, glaring petulantly. It’s odd, to sit on the same bench as Flint, to not have the barrier of a desk or table between them. He can feel the warmth from Flint’s thigh where it presses against his own. 

Not long after they’ve sat down, they’re approached by the first interested party; apparently, Flint had told Max to spread word that the Walrus was looking to take on new men. His name is Callow, he says, and Silver hates him almost instantly. In theory, he’d be a perfect fit: he’s been sailing for ten years, fighting for longer, and he’s built like a fucking brick wall. But, as Callow introduces himself to his would-be captain and quartermaster, Silver watches as his eyes flick down to where the rest of his leg should be, watches as they linger there just a hair too long. Callow barely even glances his way after that, instead directing all his attention to Flint. Any questions Silver asks are answered as if the captain himself had spoken, as if Silver isn’t even there.

Silver has spent his entire life trying to slink into the shadows, trying to become one with his surroundings and slip by without anyone paying him too much attention. But this? This willful, purposeful dismissal, from a man who knows nothing of him but what he lacks? It makes Silver want to set himself on fire. 

Callow takes his leave, and Flint stops Silver before he can write his name in their ‘yes’ column. “He won’t be joining us.”

“Damn right he won’t,” Miranda says heatedly from where she’s hovering next to Silver. When Silver had subtly glanced her way during their exchange with Callow, she’d looked absolutely murderous. He’s oddly touched by her protectiveness, though he knows it would bother him coming from anyone else.

“What? Why not? He’s more than qualified,” Silver asks both of them, baffled. Yes, he was an ass, but it’s not as if Silver’s never dealt with one of those before.

“I can’t have a man on my crew who won’t even bother to look his quartermaster in the eye,” Flint says, giving him a level, somber look, and Silver shifts uneasily. 

“Look, I know you all think I’m  _ fragile _ , like some broken little bird after what happened, but I’m a grown man. This is my reality now, Captain. Do you really think he’ll be the only one to look at me and see nothing more than a cripple? You’re not that naive.” 

He knows his tone has grown snappish as he speaks, but he can’t help it: he feels as though he’s constantly on edge, on the defensive, since Charlestown. He doesn’t need anyone to take care of him; he’s never needed anyone but himself, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let that change.

Flint just gives him a steady, understanding look, and it makes Silver want to throw something. “Even if we put aside any personal feelings you or I have about how he treated you, how do you think the crew would respond to their new member being so blatantly disrespectful to their heroic quartermaster? He’d be hated.”

“Why John, you’re blushing,” Miranda remarks, and Silver scowls. 

“Fine,” he snaps, eager to move on and pretend he hadn’t felt a strange tightness in his chest when Flint had called him heroic. “Who’s next?”

Silver finds, as the hours pass, that he’s actually, surprisingly,  _ good _ at this. He’s always been adept at reading people, and that skill is invaluable in this sort of task. He can tell within a few minutes of conversation whether or not someone would be a good fit with the crew; if they’re hiding something; if they’re lying about their capabilities (much as he had that first day); if they’re at all committed to Flint’s cause. 

By the end of their little recruiting session, Silver has eight names written in the ‘yes’ column, and six in the ‘maybe.’ Four were flat out ‘no’s. He frowns as he reads through the list, and Flint makes a questioning noise.

“Too many John Smiths,” Silver explains. “We’ll have to rectify that, if we take them on.”

“You can’t just order them to change their names, Silver,” Flint says, sounding vaguely amused.

“Sure I can. It’s not like these are their actual names,” he replies. He points at the first John Smith on the list. “This one, the one with the strangely blonde hair? He’s a convict, no doubt just barely escaped the noose before he came here. He had those bruises around his wrists, remember? And he kept glancing to all the exits while we spoke. Plus, that tattoo on his arm is from Port Royal: I’ve met at least four other men with the same one, all done by the same inmate. And this one, the Smith with that hideous jacket? He’s clearly just left a marriage. I’d say widower, except he looked far too shifty for that.  Probably just fled in the night, abandoning his wife. Did you see the tan line on his ring finger, the way he kept fidgeting with it? He’s not yet accustomed to its absence. This one, the John Smith with the horrible sunburn, was probably a teacher or something like it, then gave up on the life when he realized there was more profit to be made as a pirate. He was far better spoken than most of the other applicants. Plus he had that condescending way of talking that all teachers seem to have innately.”

Flint and Miranda both simply stare at him, evidently not expecting a dissertation on the three Smiths. 

Silver had made a similar assessment when he’d first encountered Flint: the way he carries himself indicates a military background; the small scars on what skin was visible to Silver had implied a history of violent encounters of which he’d been the victor; and the carefully waxed mustache (a habit Flint has stopped, Silver’s noticed) had shown an understanding of the importance of maintaining an image, of shaping oneself and choosing what the world perceives. 

His initial observations of Miranda had been less extensive, as he’d made them from a distance: she’d carried herself like a true lady, despite her drab clothes, and therefore had probably come from money; and the way she’d touched Flint’s hand and looked at him had spoken of a long history. 

Silver fidgets, suddenly self-conscious, and takes another hefty drink from his cup. He’s only survived this long by being observant, it’s true, but he doesn’t normally share his findings with anyone. Perhaps he’d gone overboard? 

As always, when nervous, he starts talking again. “Besides, I’m not sure how I feel about such appalling lack of originality. I mean, John Smith, really? They’re practically holding a sign above their heads that says ‘THIS IS AN ALIAS’ in bold letters.”

Flint smirks at that. “You don’t approve of their choice?”

“When it comes to creating an identity, you need something that won’t stick out too much. Something like John Smith is too vague, too bland. The smart magistrates and officers know to look for overly common names when reading a passenger list or what have you when searching for a fugitive. The trick is to pick something that’s just unique enough to be believable, but not so unique as to draw unwanted attention.”

Silver had once named himself Frederick St. Glasscock. A terrible choice, to be sure, but it had been fun while it lasted.

“Like John Silver?” Flint and Miranda speak simultaneously, in the same carefully neutral tone. 

Stupid fucking perceptive mystery lovers.

“Fuck off, both of you,” he says without thinking, stealing Flint’s cup and draining it out of spite.

Miranda sucks in a sharp gasp, but Flint just heaves a put upon sigh. “All right, if you’re oversharing  _ and _ seeing two of me, then you’ve clearly had enough. Let’s get you back to bed before Howell has my head.”

To be fair, Silver  _ has _ had six cups of rum; Flint’s not so far off the mark.

“Alcohol, my friend, can excuse away virtually anything,” Silver says to Miranda, giving her a wide, practiced smile as the captain moves to sling one of his arms over his broad (freckled, Silver remembers, so  _ freckled _ ) shoulders and help him back to the brothel.

“Now I  _ know _ you’re drunk, calling me friend,” Flint says, and Silver frowns, confused.

“What are you talking about? Of course you’re my friend. You were my only friend in the world, for a whole  _ week _ . Until you didn’t need me anymore. When you said I didn’t matter.”

Flint stiffens, and when Silver glances up from where he’s trying to get his foot under him, he looks remorseful. “Silver…”

“Not to worry, Captain! I matter now. To lots of people, even. Who would have thought?” Not Silver, that’s for damn sure. Probably not Flint, either. Fuck, he’s dizzy. He can’t tell if it’s the drink or the pain or both.

“Oh, _ John,”  _ Miranda sighs, like she’s only just understood something, though Silver couldn’t say what. 

They’re silent on the walk back to the room, mostly because Silver is too focused on staying upright and keeping the contents of his stomach down for conversation. His leg is, of course, on fire, but the liquor has helped to keep the flames somewhat manageable. Why does he always stop after one drink? Clearly, the answer to his problems is to simply be drunk at all times.

He can’t help but notice, as Flint helps him into bed like a particularly reluctant nursemaid, how very nice his captain’s hands are. Slimmer than his own, with longer, almost daintier fingers, and freckles scattered here and there. Silver wonders if there’s a single part of Flint  _ not _ covered in freckles, and finds his own hands itching to reach out and investigate. 

Miranda is watching the two of them with an oddly soft look on her face, and Silver is suddenly reminded of the conversation they’d had the other night, after Idelle had left. He looks back at Flint, at his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, and it becomes suddenly, vitally important, as he tamps down on the hot rush of  _ want _ he feels, that he reminds her.

“I’m not ashamed,” he says quietly, staring at the hollow where Flint’s neck meets his shoulders. He glances at Miranda only once, just to let her know it is her to whom he’s speaking. “I’ve never been ashamed.”

He can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his mind, feel his eyes start to droop, but not before he sees a stricken expression cross Flint’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cillian in irish means "strife." i thought it was appropriate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, i just want to thank everyone for their lovely comments! i know i haven't responded to all of them, but i intend to! they really mean the world to me.
> 
> secondly, the flashback at the end of this chapter implies that some of the boys baby silver knows were sexually abused. it is only implied, there's no scene in which any sort of sexual assault occurs, but i figured i should put a warning here in case someone wants to just skip that flashback.

After their afternoon at the tavern, Flint avoids him like the plague. It seems as though he takes pains to keep from being alone in a room with Silver, and he just - he doesn’t  _ understand _ . 

On the fourth occasion that Flint all but flees Silver’s room (he’s been restricted back to the brothel, after a stern talking-to from Howell about “overdoing it” and “acting like a proud fool”) after a strategy meeting with Billy and De Groot, he finally brings it up with Miranda.

“I don’t understand what I  _ did _ . I’ve said and done far worse things to that man than drunkenly call him ‘friend.’” 

His memories of that evening are fuzzy at best, but he feels as though he would remember if he’d said something truly offensive.

Miranda sighs, turning from where she’d been staring after Flint forlornly. “I’m afraid it’s rather complicated, John.”

He snorts at that, crutching from his little table back to the bed. Howell’s allowed him to practice on crutches and get his arms used to the extra work, so long as he stays in his room and doesn’t attempt any more breakouts. “Is there anything about Flint that  _ isn’t _ complicated?”

Normally, his teasing comments would make her smile, but Miranda still looks horribly sad. “It’s just - something you said, that night, reminded him of - ” she cuts herself off, sending him an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It caught him off guard, I think.”

He just observes her for a time, watching the way she stares at her hands, clasped on her knees, the way her brows furrow. Finally, he asks. “Is this about whoever it was you lost? The one you never speak of?”

The one that had hung in the air around Flint and Miranda whenever they were in a room together, the one whose presence is still stifling and tangible between them even when Flint cannot see her.  

Miranda whips her head up to stare at him, shocked. “Pardon?”

“I’ve long since realized that there was more than just love tying you together. It was grief, too, wasn’t it? For them.”

Miranda opens her mouth as if to speak, but closes it again. She presses her fingers to her mouth, shaking her head almost to herself.

“Excuse me,” she says abruptly, then floats out of the room, moving faster than he’s ever seen her. 

Silver scrambles to get up, to follow her. “Miranda - Miranda, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t - ”

One of the crutches slips out from under him in his haste, and he goes crashing to the floor with a groan. He goes to get up again, only to realize that both his crutches have skidded across the room, out of his reach. He pounds his fist against the ground once, twice, before slowly starting to drag himself along the floor toward them. There’s no one here to witness this indignity, but still he’s humiliated. 

It’s excruciating, pulling himself across the floor, his stump dragging painfully against the hardwood despite his best efforts. By the time he’s made it halfway, he’s in tears, unable to stop his body’s response to such brutal treatment. He’s being ridiculous, he knows: he should just leave her be, and go back to his soft, if confining bed. But - 

She is, despite the crew’s discomfiting, newfound loyalty, despite Billy’s tentative trust and Max’s not-quite fond respect, the only friend he has. That he so carelessly hurt her, that he used his sharp tongue to pry and willfully needle at what was clearly a sensitive wound, makes him sick. He’s not a good person, and Miranda knows this, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior. He doesn’t deserve her friendship, but he’s terrified of how lonely, how lost he’d be if he were to lose it. 

Of course, his grunts and sobs and perhaps even the fall itself have made enough noise to warrant someone coming to check on him, and who should enter but the cause of all his problems.

Flint hadn’t been there when he’d lost the leg; he hadn’t seen Silver cry and thrash and scream. He just stands there, seemingly frozen in surprise at the sight of his quartermaster blubbering like a child on the floor.

The weight of his gaze, which Silver has been seeking out for  _ days _ , is suddenly unbearable.

“Get out!” he cries, trying and failing to push himself onto his good knee. His arms are so _ fucking sore _ from using those crutches. Flint doesn’t move, and so he repeats himself, practically screaming. “Get the  _ fuck _ out, Flint!”

But he doesn’t. Instead Flint walks over to him, crouching down to help him up. His face is carefully blank, as though he’s trying to hide the disgust and pity he’s feeling at the sight of Silver so pathetic. Silver shoves his hands off the first three times he tries to get a grip on him, but Flint has always been a stubborn bastard. 

This is all Flint’s fault, he decides, glaring at the captain through his tears. If Flint hadn’t decided that Silver wasn’t worth his time, if he hadn’t been so bloody secretive all the time, then Silver would never have upset Miranda in the first place. 

Silver can’t stop his cry of pain as Flint finally drags him to his feet, or the whimpers he lets loose as they slowly make their way to the bed. Flint helps him sit, still silent, and Silver - Silver can’t - he’s so - 

“I should have just let you all die,” he spits out, venomous and untrue. “I should have just turned my back and walked away, and then none of this would have happened.”

“Perhaps,” Flint says, sounding hollow, and Silver’s blindsided by his acquiescence for all of two seconds before the rage comes back full force. 

How - how fucking - how fucking  _ dare _ he say that, after what Silver went through for him? For his men? How  _ dare _ he place so little value on his life after everything Silver has lost to keep him and his legend afloat?

“I wish I’d never met you,” he says quietly, closing his eyes as he hears the way his voice cracks with emotion.

He hears Flint sigh, then get up to leave, presumably to go find Howell, but - and fuck, it absolutely kills him to admit weakness it - Silver still needs his help.

“Wait.” Flint stops at the door, turning just slightly to indicate that he’s listening. Silver hopes he’s not expecting an apology. “My crutches. I need them.”

Miranda’s reach, they’ve discovered, isn’t so wide. At most, she can go about seventy feet or so before she feels that inexorable tug back to Flint. If he can just get the crutches, he might be able to find her, slow and painful a task though it may be. And he  _ has _ to find her. He can’t just leave things like that, not after -

“Are you out of your  _ fucking _ mind?” Flint asks hotly, and - oh, finally something other than detached professionalism. If Silver weren’t practically incoherent from the agony in his leg he thinks he’d appreciate it. “After what you’ve just put your leg through, do you seriously think I’m going to just hand them back to you? You’ll be lucky if you haven’t torn your stitches with that stunt.”

Silver tries to get back to his feet, to stand on his good leg and hold himself up on the bedpost, but Flint rushes over to push him back down. 

“They’re mine. You can’t - you can’t just keep them from me,” he pleads, eyes yet again filling with tears. It’s the pain, the humiliation, the fact that it’s  _ Flint _ , of all people, seeing Silver so low. 

_ You can’t keep my freedom from me, _ he doesn’t say. Without those crutches, he’s helpless.

“I can and I will. If I can’t trust you to take care of yourself in this tiny room, how can I possibly trust you to do the same on the ship? Or to look out for the men, for that matter?”

Silver flinches back. “You’d - you’d remove me from the Walrus?” 

Flint gives him a stern look, as though he’s a child that needs chastising. “I’ll not have a quartermaster so proud he can’t bear to ask for help.”

Silver can feel the panic beginning to sink in, tight and hot under his skin. “No. _No_ \- you can’t do that. You can’t take this from me, you can’t, the men _chose_ _me_ , they _want_ _me_ \- ”

“Pull yourself together, Mr. Silver, and I won’t have to,” Flint replies dismissively, and with that he goes and picks up the crutches,  _ steals _ them. He takes his leave without a backwards glance, ignoring the empty mug that shatters against the doorway just next to his head, a parting gift from his quartermaster.

 

 

*****

 

 

It takes seven hours for Miranda to return.

Silver doesn’t have anything to do except count the time she’s gone, not after Howell comes in and forces the laudanum on him, making his vision blur and rendering reading impossible. 

When she does come back, she won’t look at him, instead staring out the window. “I’m sorry, for leaving so abruptly. It wasn’t fair of me to remind you so cruelly that you could not easily follow.” She goes to continue, turning to face Silver, but when she catches sight of him her apologetic expression becomes aghast. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I tried to go after you, to apologize. I was unsuccessful,” he says. She’s slightly fuzzy, but he can still see her grimace at that, guilt firmly back in place. He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. He’s never been very good at apologies, especially the genuine kind. “It’s me who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed, not when I knew it would upset you.”

Not as poetic as he could have made it, were he completely sober, but maybe that’s not the point. He glances over, trying to give her his best ‘I’m Sorry And You’re Important To Me’ smile.

Miranda’s face softens, and she moves closer to him. She frowns again, though, as she gets a good look at his eyes. “Have you been crying, John?”

He feels his cheeks redden, for once not at some teasing innuendo Miranda has made at his expense. “Of course not,” he says far too quickly.

She glares, unimpressed, and he shifts uneasily. This, of course, jostles his leg, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort before he can stop himself. 

Miranda notices, because that’s just how this day has been going, for Silver. “What  _ happened _ , John?” she repeats, insistent.

It takes less than thirty seconds under her concerned, caring gaze for his resolve to crumble. “I fell. My crutches slipped, and then I couldn’t reach them.”

“Show me,” she says, and at first Silver doesn’t understand. But then she gestures to his stump, and he hesitates. It’s ugly, and swollen, and raw in a way it hasn’t looked for weeks. He  _ had _ torn his stitches, and there are still traces of blood lingering on his skin, scabbed and disgusting. It’s not a sight for anyone, let alone a  _ lady _ . 

Still, she cannot move it, and he knows that if she were corporeal she would have already torn the blanket off herself. Silver finds that he doesn’t want her to feel incapable, and so he carefully lifts the blanket off his stump, wincing at her horrified gasp.

He covers it again quickly and begins to speak, mostly to distract them from his deformity. 

“He took my crutches,” he says, trying to convey the helplessness brewing inside his heart without having to say the words out loud. 

“Dr. Howell?”

“Flint,” he corrects. He has a thought then, and can’t help his bitter laugh. “As it turns out, we might have to say our goodbyes after all, Miranda.”

Miranda gives him a perplexed sort of look, and so he tells her what happened. He leaves out the part where he wept like a babe, but does not bother to hide the cruel words he’d thrown at Flint, or the captain’s harsh rebuttal. 

“So you see, we might be going our separate ways,” he finishes, thinking of Flint’s threat to depose him.

Miranda’s response, when it comes, is immediate and confident. “No, I don’t think we will.”

“But Flint said - ”

She raises a hand, and Silver falls silent. “Far be it for me to undermine James’s authority, but it’s rather apparent to me that he was trying to scare you into action. He knows how much your new role means to you, and probably thought threatening its loss was the only way to spur you into being more careful with yourself.”

“I have never known Captain Flint to make an empty threat,” Silver rebuts cautiously, though he can already feel that low thrum of panic beginning to dissipate. Miranda knows the captain far better than him, after all.

“John, can you imagine how the men would react if Flint were to tell them he had removed their beloved quartermaster from the ship without their consent? He’d have a near-mutiny on his hands.”

Silver fidgets, uncomfortable (and unused) as ever with the idea of being so important to  _ anyone _ . “Surely some distance would afford them clearer minds. They’d realize what a hassle it would have been to have an invalid as quartermaster.”

Miranda sighs, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “To think, James once described you to me as an ‘unbearably cocky little shit.’”

Silver hadn’t realized that Flint had ever spoken of him with her. Before he can investigate further, Miranda gets to her point. 

“You haven’t been around the men much lately, but I spent a good week on that warship drifting among them, and these past few days on the beach as James oversees preparations. You should hear the way they speak of you, John. I’d heard the story of how you lost your leg nearly a dozen times before you first woke. The new recruits asked about you, and Muldoon practically tripped over himself in his haste to sing your praises.”

Silver relaxes then, settling back against his pillows more fully as Miranda soothes his doubts away.

“As for your earlier question - something you said that night reminded James of that someone we lost. It shocked him, I think; made him reevaluate how familiar he’d started to behave with you. He’s always been a stubborn man.”

Silver is fairly burning with curiosity, but he restrains himself, knowing full well what a gift Miranda is giving him by sharing this at all. Still, he finds it difficult to believe that there is any part of himself that would remind Flint (or indeed Miranda) of that person he cared so deeply for. 

“It’s not my place, to tell you James’s story. But - perhaps when you are feeling more up to it I could tell some of mine. It would be nice, I think, to talk about Thomas. To share him with someone other than James.”

“Thomas?” he prompts, eager to hear more, though the laudanum has finally begun to take its toll. Miranda, as is usually the case, is right: he’ll have to wait until at least tomorrow to hear more.

“Yes. Our Thomas.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The first time Silver tries on the peg, he makes it four steps before he passes out from the pain. When he wakes, sweaty and still in agony, he sends a silent apology to Randall for trying to force the man to use one of these torture devices.

He hates the peg, hates that every painful, thudding step reminds him of what he lacks, what he’s not. Still, he prefers it to the crutches. It’s amazing, really; he’d never considered himself a prideful man, until he started noticing the looks people gave him while he limped around on those things. 

For the first week after Howell reluctantly gives him the prosthesis (under firm instructions to use it sparingly, if at all), Silver has Miranda watch his face as he walks around his room on it. If he’s going to get away with using the peg as often as he intends to on the Walrus, he needs to learn to school his expressions, to hide his grimaces and steady his shuddering breaths. 

“I still don’t understand why you won’t just use the crutches. Those men adore you, John. They’re not going to care what you use to get around,” Miranda says during one of their breaks, while Silver pants at his small table and drinks some more rum to help him dull the ache.

“They will after the tenth time one of those things slips from under me. How many times do you think a crew can watch their quartermaster fall to the ground before they grow tired of helping him back up?” He inhales deeply, wipes his brow, and stands. “Again.”

Miranda purses her lips, but dutifully tells him when his practiced mask of indifference starts to slip. It used to be so easy for Silver to put up a wall and hide his true feelings, but as it turns out the pain of losing a leg is a most effective hammer against those barriers.

He has another week until they set sail; another week to learn to hide the pain from Flint, Howell, and all the others. 

When Silver’s finished - or, more accurately, when Miranda refuses to watch him torture himself anymore - they lie together on the bed, Miranda floating next to him while he lets his sore stump breathe.

“Tell me about Thomas,” he says, looking over at her eagerly.

The first thing she ever told Silver about her late husband was the manner in which he was taken from her. He could tell, even as she spoke, that it wasn’t the whole truth, but he’d understood better afterwards why indeed she and Flint held such hatred for Peter Ashe, if it really had been his actions that led to Thomas’s institutionalization. 

He’s also very glad that both Ashe and Alfred Hamilton are dead.

Since then, he’s heard a variety of tales, from her and Thomas’s first meeting to their wedding day to their ten-year anniversary.

She’s said very little about Flint’s presence in their lives in London; only that yes, they had been together, that Thomas had been aware of it, and that Flint and her husband had been close nevertheless.

She smiles. “Again? Surely you’ve grown tired of my stories.”

Silver shrugs. “I’ve never loved anyone as much as you love him. And I’ll certainly never meet anyone as wholly good as he seemed to be.”

He also knows how much Miranda enjoys talking about Thomas, how happy it makes her to share her memories of him with someone other than Flint.

“Oh, but he could be as much of a shit as you. Perhaps even more so.”

“I would think being a wholesome idealist would preclude being a shit.”

“Well, I never said Thomas was wholesome, did I? Why I remember once, not long after we were married…”

 

 

*****

 

 

It’s always been fairly difficult to frighten Silver. When he did at one point give it some thought, he assumed that a childhood spent exposed to ghosts - and all grisly manners of their deaths - had made him somewhat immune to the usual horrors that kept children up at night. He was never afraid of the dark, or the monsters that might linger there, for at a very young age he’d already seen the spectres of so many fairytales, and found them not so terribly frightening after all.

It’s not the ghosts and ghouls, little Silver had learned, one has to look out for. The real monsters have always been people.

He’s not frightened, per se, as he paces back and forth on the main deck (painfully, as most things these days are painful for Silver) waiting for Flint’s return from this first of many raids. He’s simply…concerned. Mostly on Miranda’s behalf, of course; he knows how she worries about Flint, who as of late has been less and less concerned with his own wellbeing. 

Eventually, De Groot puts a stop to his pacing with a hand clasped to his shoulder.  “Give it a rest, Mr. Silver. You’re distracting the men.”

At first, Silver doesn’t understand what he means: how could him pacing be a distraction? But at his furrowed brow, De Groot gives the peg a significant look, and Silver grimaces in shame. The peg is too loud, and surely irritating. If he’d been merely walking on two good feet, that would have been one thing, but each step Silver takes with his false leg echoes across the mostly silent ship. 

“What would you have me do?” Silver asks, slightly abashed.

De Groot shrugs. “There’s not much you  _ can _ do until the vanguard returns. Why don’t you return to your cabin, get some rest? Don’t think we haven’t noticed how little you sleep. How are you meant to keep the Captain in line when you’re too cross-eyed to think?”

“I can’t just  _ leave _ , I have to be here for the men - “

“And be here you will. But for now, Mr. Silver, I think it’d be best for all of us if you calm yourself in the privacy of the cabin.”

Silver bristles at the idea that he needs calming, but he acquiesces, mostly because he’s still embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed the thumping of his own peg. 

Miranda’s in the cabin when he enters, floating between two walls anxiously. What does it say about Silver’s relationship with Flint, that in his fretfulness he’d begun to mimic the actions of the Captain’s dearest companion? 

“Any news?” The look on her face implies she knows better than to expect anything. Silver wonders how many days and nights she spent in that cottage, pacing much as Silver had been himself, waiting to find out if she was alone in the world. It’s an upsetting thought, and Silver tries to rid himself of it as he closes the door. 

“De Groot says it’ll be awhile yet.”

“I can’t stand this,” Miranda says, exhaling heavily. She doesn’t really need to breathe, so the exasperated sigh is more for dramatic effect than necessity. “I thought it was bad before, but being so close and being unable to  _ do something _ is maddening.”

Silver goes to the nearest chair, breathing through the pain in his leg. “I know the feeling.”

He’s never been much of a fighter - though he has killed his fair share of men -, but the knowledge that he’s all but useless at the moment weighs heavily on him. Doesn’t the crew realize they’d be better off with a Quartermaster who can actually hold his own in a battle? A Quartermaster who can do more than turn a phrase, or talk his way out of a bind?

“Do you know, if James dies in this raid, I don’t think I’d be able to forgive him.”

Privately, Silver agrees.

They sit together in silence, quietly drawing support form each other, until they hear a commotion up on deck. Miranda fairly flies through the door in her haste, and Silver isn’t long to follow.

Flint swings aboard, the blood splattered across his face highlighted by the lantern De Groot holds aloft. The men are all abuzz, and Flint even allows a few friendly thumps on the back from overly enthusiastic members of the vanguard, his mood apparently mellowed by the bloodshed. 

Billy gives Silver a brief overview of the raid’s success as Flint plans their maneuvers out of the bay with De Groot. Several men come up to Silver, and he does his best to be encouraging, but it’s really the Captain with whom he needs to speak. 

Flint heads for the cabin, and Silver excuses himself from his conversation with Dooley to catch up. Flint’s only just reached the door when Silver calls out to him.

“Captain, are you - ”

Flint slams the door behind him without sparing Silver a backwards glance. 

He’s not sure why it stings so badly.

 

 

*****

 

 

“In my head, you are not welcome,” Flint says, his eyes filled with a cold, righteous anger. 

It’s strange, how Flint burns so bright with rage as he fights his war, and yet chills to the touch whenever Silver draws near.

It’s a dismissal if he’s ever heard one, and so Silver leaves, moving below deck to sit in the galley and breathe through not just the pain, but his own anger toward Flint. He’s not the ship’s cook anymore, but he finds that he sometimes misses the privacy working in the makeshift kitchen afforded him and Randall. 

Miranda appears not long after he goes to his hiding spot. Though it is definitely Flint to whom she is tethered, Miranda doesn’t hover around the Captain at all times. She doesn’t even necessarily spend all her time with Silver, though hers is perhaps the only constant company he wouldn’t mind. She likes to float up to the crow’s nest, to stare out at the sea rolling around them, lost in thought. 

“Have you had another row?”

“No, no. Just needed a break,” he lies, because the last thing he wants is to upset her even more than she already has been with Flint’s behavior.

“John.”

When he glances over she has a stern look on her face, her full lips pursed in annoyance and her brow furrowed slightly. 

He sighs, giving in far too easily. “I tried to reason with him, see if he’d take himself off the vanguard. I know it’s been troubling you, how reckless he’s been lately, and with the militiamen last night…”

“He didn’t take it well?” She prompts. 

“Flint made it clear that, though I may have the crew fooled, he is not so easily taken in by my charms. He more or less told me to go fuck myself.”

“Oh,  _ James _ ,” she sighs, put upon, and Silver snorts, mirthless.  _ Oh, James _ , indeed.

“‘You’re not welcome in my head.’ That’s what he said. What I’d like to know is where I  _ am _ welcome to Flint. Certainly not on his ship.”

“I think, perhaps, you see him all too clearly. It disturbs him, to know - ”

Silver cuts her off, impatient and annoyed. “But I don’t! I never know what he’s thinking. He’s anything but clear.”

“Emotional vulnerability has never been his strong suit,” Miranda says. “Even when he and Thomas first - ”

But Silver had stopped listening at ‘emotional vulnerability.’ “Nor is it mine! The last thing I’d ever want to do is talk to Flint about his  _ feelings _ , but when said feelings manifest into borderline  _ suicidal _ recklessness, something needs to be said!”

“You seem awfully concerned,” Miranda says. At this point, Silver’s become quite adept at reading her every facial tick. This particular expression, however, is purposefully blank, he thinks. It only serves to irritate him further.

“Why is it always such a surprise to you that I care?” He snaps, defensive. He would think by now she knows his attempts at aloofness when it comes to Flint have failed spectacularly.

“Perhaps I’m just unused to seeing someone other than myself so preoccupied with James’s wellbeing.”

Silver snorts. “Or  _ perhaps _ there’s something you’re not saying, something you’ve observed about my behavior that you don’t want to share.”

“And why wouldn’t I share such an observation with you?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” he retorts, leveling her with the most infuriated glare he can muster. It probably only comes off as fondly irritated, damn it all. Silver’s never had such a close friend before; he finds it incredibly difficult to maintain any sort of righteous anger with her. He wonders if even the ever-irate Flint struggled similarly when it came to Miranda.

“If there were such an...impression,” Miranda says cautiously, “perhaps it could be that you’re not ready to hear it. Or believe it, for that matter.”

She departs with a slightly pitying smile, leaving Silver wonder what exactly it is he’s not prepared to hear.

  
  


*****

 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he gave up on screaming. It feels as though he’s been listening to the waves crash against the hull and the rain lash the deck or hours, trapped with Muldoon’s body staring up at him. 

Muldoon’s been dead for some time, but Silver can’t bear to let go of his hand just yet. If he lets go, then he’ll be truly alone.

He doesn’t even notice when Miranda arrives, still staring at Muldoon’s vacant face and whispering hoarse apologies. 

“John! Thank God, I was so worried when you weren’t with the others…”

“I couldn’t - Miranda, I couldn’t save him,” his voice breaks, the tears starting up again at the look on her face. It looks as if her heart is breaking for him. 

“Oh,  _ John _ .”

“I tried,” he sobs, pressing Muldoon’s hand to his chest. “I tried so hard, Miranda - it was too heavy, I - ”

Miranda moves closer, until she’s just next to his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, John.”

“If I didn’t have this  _ fucking _ leg - ”

“There was nothing you could do.” Miranda insists, her voice brooking no argument.

He shakes his head, looking between her and Muldoon helplessly. He hopes, desperately, that Muldoon doesn’t come back as a ghost. He’ll miss him, of course, miss their budding friendship, but to live with a constant reminder of his failure, of how he’d let the man down, would be a waking nightmare.

“You have to let him go, John,” she says softly, reaching out and letting her hand hover over where Silver’s clutching at Muldoon. 

“I can’t,” he murmurs, “I can’t, I can’t - ”

“He’s gone, darling. Let go.”

It’s the  _ darling _ that finally gets through to Silver, a simple reminder that Miranda  _ cares _ , that she’s here with him, that she’ll stay with him.

He lets go, sobbing even harder, and Miranda stays close in his line of sight, a silent comfort. Not for the first time, he wishes he could touch her. He wishes he could hold her, and be held in return.

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver’s fairly certain he’s not the only one losing patience with Flint as their days in the doldrums stretch on; more and more, he hears Miranda practically growl in frustration at the Captain’s sheer bullheadedness.

“If you challenge me in any way while we exist in this state, I will be forced to make an issue of how we entered into it in the first place,” Flint says, his gaze growing harsh as he rises to his full height. He’s not a particularly tall man, but then again one doesn’t need much to tower over Silver. “How your failure to inform them of the danger inherent in investigating Hallendale's ship led us into the trap that began all this.”

SIlver bristles at that -  there’d been no way for them to know it was a trap at the time. Flint himself hadn’t foreseen Hornigold’s scheme: his reticence when it came to investigating Hallendale’s ship had been almost entirely due to a reluctance to waste time. And  _ furthermore _ , sailing into that bloody storm had  _ not _ been Silver’s idea.

He already bears responsibility for Muldoon’s death. He cannot carry this on his shoulders as well. 

“For  _ fuck’s sake _ , James!” Miranda exclaims, and Silver feels slightly vindicated hearing it. He must be slightly more cautious in speaking with the Captain, but at least he knows that for once Miranda is on his side. 

I'm asserting that as captain in a life-threatening situation, it is my right to have complete control over ship and men for the sake of their collective welfare until such time as we emerge from this situation. In the meantime, I will compile two lists - ” Silver storms out of the cabin before Flint finishes, muttering about Machiavellian bastards under his breath. Surely Flint will already be warning Billy that their Quartermaster needs to be kept in check. He wonders if Flint discuss him with Billy as often as  _ he _ discusses  _ Flint _ with Billy. 

The men greet Silver weakly as he walks by, and he tries not to let the guilt he feels show. He’ll be on Flint’s list of men who deserve rations, no matter how the two of them might quarrel. The thought of being elevated above any of these men - these  _ able _ men - makes him sick.

Unfortunately for Silver, the situation doesn’t improve.

He can’t even blow off some steam and bitch about Flint to Miranda: someone is always there, looking to him for reassurance, and then of course at night he and the captain share a cabin. Furthermore, he can’t risk being caught mumbling to himself; the threat of madness looms over them all as the threat of dehydration looms. 

And so he stews in his anger, day in and day out. The intensity comes and goes, but it’s always there, a low thrum of heat.

And then Flint kills two of their men. Like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing.

As  Flint leaves him to deal with the fallout, Silver’s practically shaking with rage. He doesn’t know if he’s ever truly  _ hated _ Flint before this moment. He’s not sure if he’s more angry that the Captain had undermined his authority or that he’d called him weak. 

The frustrating thing is that he knows it will pass, this fury. Be it through something Flint himself says or does, or Miranda’s needling, Silver will soon enough find a new reason to return to the Captain’s side. Some new facet of the man will emerge, and Silver will be drawn in just as he always is, curious and intrigued and so fucking naive. 

He clings to his ire for as long as he can. This time, it’s less than five minutes.

Miranda comes to him while the bodies are being thrown overboard, the usual funeral rites foregone in the case of these traitors. 

“John, you need to - ”

He shoots her the most withering glare he can come up with, pretending as if he’s looking along the skyline. 

“I know you’re cross with him, I am too, but he needs someone, anyone. If I can’t help him, it has to be you.”

Still, Silver says nothing. Another harsh look, then he heads back to the stairs leading to the galley. He pauses at the top though, as Miranda yet again moves in front of him. He could just walk through her, but it wouldn’t stop her from following. 

“Do it for me. He’ll have to earn your forgiveness, I know that, but - do it for me. Please, John?”

Silver sighs, looks between her and the galley once, twice...and turns away, walking up the stairs to follow Flint into the cabin. 

Fucking Miranda and her fucking sad eyes and her fucking reasonable requests.

He expects to find Flint brooding, perhaps ruminating on the monster he has become. Maybe Flint is totally unaffected, and this is why Miranda is so concerned.

What he is completely un-fucking-prepared for is the sight of Captain Flint curled up on the floor, sobbing in near hysterics. He hasn’t even noticed Silver’s arrival.

He’s suddenly, fiercely, grateful that Miranda had followed him in here, because fuck if he knows what to do in in this moment. He looks to her, panicked and completely at a loss as to what comes next.

“The Donne, darling. It’s on the top shelf.”

He turns to face away from Flint, before hissing under his breath, incredulous: “You want me to read him a fucking _ bedtime story?” _

“Not a bedtime story. Poetry. There were nights when he came home so lost, like he didn’t know who he was, like he couldn’t bear to be inside his own mind. That was when I read to him, let him wrap himself around the words until the world righted itself.”

Silver can picture it so easily: the two of them in their cozy, warm bed, Miranda running her fingers through Flint’s hair as he wrapped himself around her, desperate for whatever comfort he could find. An intolerable, weak quartermaster is a far cry from a lover of ten years, but at this point Flint will have to take what he can get.

Silver lowers himself to sit beside Flint, slowly and painfully. It’s only when their sides brush against one another that Flint seems to register his presence, flinching away violently. 

He should be yelling. Flint should be yelling, screaming at Silver to get the fuck out. Instead, he just curls further in on himself, trembling and staring off at some unseen horror. 

It’s enough to make Silver forget his anger completely, whatever remnants of it fading away at the grief-stricken look in Flint’s eyes. He reaches for the Donne. 

“I’ll tell thee now, dear Love, what thou shalt do 

To anger destiny, as she doth us, 

How I shall stay, though she esloygne me thus 

And how posterity shall know it too;”

He pauses, glancing over at Flint. The shivers have stopped. He goes on, pretends not to notice as Flint slowly unfurls, as he shifts closer and closer as each poem ends. By the time Silver’s made it halfway through the thin volume, Flint’s head is on his shoulder.

“....Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 

Like th' other foot, obliquely run; 

Thy firmness makes my circle just, 

  And makes me end where I begun.”

Flint still hasn’t said anything, and so Silver turns to the next poem.

“He’s asleep, John.” 

Silver startles, jostling Flint slightly.  He’d forgotten Miranda was there. Sure enough, at the motion Flint makes a soft snuffling sort of noise, burrowing his face deeper against Silver’s shoulder.

He stares down at Flint’s sleeping face, nonplussed, before looking back up at Miranda. She has that look on her face, the one she wears when she talks about her beloved Thomas, about when Flint becomes  _ James _ . She’s never looked at Silver like that before.

“What do I do?”

“Get some rest. You’ve more than earned it.”

“Like this?”

Miranda raises a brow. “Do you really want to wake him?”

Which is fair enough, Silver supposes. He shifts, just a little, until he can stretch out his peg more comfortably. After a moment’s hesitation, he wraps his arm around Flint, running his hand along the fuzz on his skull. It should feel wrong, feel strange to essentially embrace his captain.

It doesn’t.

 

 

*****

 

 

He wakes some hours later, slightly disoriented and with a crick in his neck.

Flint is long gone.

 

 

*****

 

 

They’ve been underway for about an hour now, and Silver still hasn’t put his shirt back on. 

True, with the wind returned it’s less stiflingly hot, but his top still stinks of shark guts, and he hasn’t the energy to try and wash it out in some seawater.

“You’ve done enough today,” Billy had said, sending him on his way to the cabin. Silver would have argued more, but he’s useless, frankly, when it comes to sailing and he’d been eager to get out of the sun.

Silver takes his hair and ties it in a loose, somewhat messy bun at the top of his head, airing out the sweaty back of his neck. He considers reading for about half a second, then moves to stare out the window instead, propping his bum leg up on the window bench (his bed, now). It’s amazing, how he’d taken for granted the sight of waves rolling along the horizon, propelled by the wind. 

Silver’s enjoying the first true privacy he’s had in over two weeks, glad that he can finally hear himself think, that said thoughts aren’t clouded by doubts and fear and despair. Of course, it feels like mere minutes before Flint enters the cabin. Miranda follows soon after, floating down through the ceiling with a pleased smile. 

No doubt she’s still excited about the ‘progress’ Silver had made. He’s sure when they get a chance she’ll have him recount the whole bloody tale, from the first row of their oars to their final bout with the sharks.

The thought makes him smile; soon enough he and Miranda will be back to normal.  _ Everything _ will be back to normal.

“We’ll make landfall soon enough. An hour, three at most,” Flint says, though there’s something slightly off in his voice. When Silver turns to face him fully, there’s a strange look on his face, and he’s staring at Silver’s bare chest intently. 

Silver looks down at himself, but doesn’t see anything particularly out of the ordinary. 

“I know,” he starts sheepishly, mostly because Flint hasn’t said anything else and Miranda appears quite content to let him fend for himself. “I’m in desperate need of a bath. But, in my defense, I’m fairly certain Dooley smells worse than me.”

It seems as though Silver’s words stir Flint from some intense, faraway thought, and the Captain has to blink a few times as he registers what Silver’s said. They’re all a bit worn out, Silver supposes; it makes sense that the captain is a bit slower on the uptake than usual. 

“No, it’s not that. I was just - your back.”

Silver frowns at that, twisting to get a look. It seems the same as always. “What do you mean?”

Flint moves closer, until he’s only a foot away. Silver should feel nervous with his back to Flint like this after what he’d admitted to only this afternoon, but he’d meant it when he told Miranda and Billy they’d made progress: he doesn’t believe that Flint will hurt him now. He’s mostly just curious to know what the man’s going on about.

“I noticed, once, before Charlestown, that you’re - there’s hardly a mark on you. Life had left its impressions on all of us, and yet there you were, unmarred save for a freckle or two. Except...” 

Flint reaches out slowly, hesitantly, and traces his fingers along the large, lone scar that slopes across Silver’s back. 

Silver stiffens, suddenly panicked. Perhaps it would have been better if Flint had attacked him after all. 

“How did you get this?”

Silver forces himself to relax, then lets out a nervous, forced chuckle. He shrugs. “You know, Captain, I was so young when it happened - I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Haven’t the foggiest how it happened.”

Flint doesn’t seem impressed with his answer. “I’ve seen scars like this before - ”

“With the life you’ve led, I can’t imagine there’s any wound you’re not familiar with - ”

“- from whips,” Flint continues, as if Silver hadn’t spoken at all. Miranda makes a distressed sort of noise from behind them.

It takes a beat too long for Silver to respond, he knows. The silence in those few moments is telling. When he does turn, false smirk plastered on his face, the look in Flint’s eyes is practically unbearable.

“Well, that would be quite the story, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, as I said, I can’t remember where I got this particular scar.”

Silver breaks eye contact first, uncomfortable with the  _ understanding _ in that gaze. Flint doesn’t understand, he could never understand. Silver knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever Flint is imagining is nowhere close to the truth.

“Would you like to know how I got this one?” he asks, changing the subject none too subtly.  He points to the scar just under his bottom lip. “I was riding a horse as a young boy, and...”

He trails off as Flint shakes his head, looking almost disappointed. “I’d best get back on deck. Who knows what kind of shit the men will get themselves into.”

Flint leaves without another word. Silver can still feel the warmth from his touch along his back. 

“Is it really so difficult to just - tell the truth?” Miranda asks.

“Some truths are better left buried,” Silver says quietly staring out the window once more.

 

 

*****

 

 

_ “Why you have pillow?” Cillian asks Gideon one night, the words strange and not-right in his mouth even after nearly a year. It’s something he’s wondered for months, staring at Gideon and Liam and Connor’s floating bluish bodies and the cushions they all hold.  _

_ He doesn’t have any friends among the living boys in the home; only the ghostly ones. When he first came, they didn’t mind that he couldn’t speak their language, that even the English (and Irish) words he did know sounded wrong with his thick accent. They were just excited that he could see them, that he could hear them and laugh at their antics.  _

_ It is Gideon, one of the oldest ghosts (fourteen, he says, puffing up his chest when Cillian asks) who takes the time to try and teach Cillian proper English, and for his troubles he gets a seven year old shadow trailing after him at all hours of the day. _

_ The other boys, the normal ones, think him odd, think it strange that he laughs at thin air or stares into space. Cillian - for that is what the Fathers call him, the name his mother gave him long abandoned - for the first several months could barely understand a thing they said about him, but he could tell well enough that they weren’t fond words.  _

_ Papi would sometimes talk about him in that same tone of voice with the neighbors, with that same look on his face. _

_ Papi would hit him, too, just like the bigger boys do when they’re bored or angry or frightened. _

_ The Fathers don’t pay him enough attention to think ill of him; Cillian tries his very hardest to keep it that way.  _

_ Out of the fifteen ghost boys, only three confuse him: some of them are too skinny to have died from anything other than hunger; others have little pox scars all over their faces; and one or two clearly fell and hit their heads; but there’s nothing that looks wrong with Gideon, Liam, or Connor. _

_ Just the pillows. _

_ “That’s how Father Abbott gets ya,” Liam says, and Gideon and Connor nod with scared, serious looks on their faces. _

_ Cillian nearly pisses himself at that, and spends nigh on four years fleeing whenever Abbott comes close.  _

_ In those four years, he makes no new friends, but he does avoid the beatings. _

_ The spirits come and whisper the day’s gossip in his ear, tell him what they have seen whilst floating around the home, and he uses that information to turn the other boys’ ire away from him and towards each other. He gets pretty good at this English thing, enough so that when he addresses the bunks each morning, he is listened to.  _

_ Cillian is nine years old when he makes his two-hundredth address, and no one has laid a hand on him in nearly six months. That is something to be proud of, he thinks. _

_ On the day of his nine-hundred and sixteenth address, Father Abbott corners him in the garden as he’s weeding (apart from the other boys; they never want to work near him, if they can help it). Abbott sits on the bench just behind him for what feels like ages, and Cillian tries to ignore him, even as his hands begin to tremble.  _

_ There are no pillows outside, at least, for Abbott to get him with. _

_ “Come sit with me, Cillian,” the Father says, his voice lilting and syrupy, and when Cillian glances back he’s patting the empty space on the bench. Cillian turns back to the weeds. _

_ “I gotta do my chores, sir,” Cillian replies, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.  _

_ “Nonsense! You’ve been working all morning. Come and chat with me for awhile.” _

_ There’s nothing he can do but sit, wiping his dirty hands on his pants and scooting as far away from the Father as he can without falling off the bench.  _

_ “Your English has improved greatly, Cillian. You must have worked very hard,” Abbott rests a hand on his shoulder, giving him a pat of approval, and Cillian wonders if it would be too insolent to just shrug it off and run away. Probably, he decides, and so he stays completely still instead. _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ Cillian doesn’t look him in the eyes, too frightened to address him properly, but he can tell that Abbott is smiling. “I don’t see as much of you as I’d like, Cillian. Of course, you’re hard to miss, with that pretty head of curls, those big eyes of yours, but you’re like a ghost at times.” _

_ Abbott reaches out, fingers one of his curls. _

_ ( “He liked my hair,” Connor - who died just a year before Cillian came to the Home - says, a faraway, nervous look in his eyes. _

_ “He liked my eyes,” Liam - who died three years before Connor - adds, those very eyes shining. _

_ “What he liked,” Gideon - who died before Cillian was even born - says pointedly, “was that none of us had any friends.” ) _

_ Cillian flinches away, trembling.  _

_ “Still skittish as a colt, I see,” The Father laughs, and Cillian gets up, starts to go inside, mumbling about a glass of water. Abbott grabs his arm though, keeps him there. “What did I ever do to you, lad? Must you be so nervous?” _

_ Cillian tries to pull free, but he’s always been small for his age, and the Father’s grip is so tight. “No, I don’t - Connor said, and - and - Gideon and Liam -” _

_ Abbott lets go abruptly, as if he’s been scalded. He stands, looming over Cillian, walking toward him, until he’s backed against the brick walls. The kind lines in his face, the jovial smile, have vanished, and in their place is a shadow, suspicious and angry. _

_ “What did you say?” _

_ “Nothing. Nothing, Father,” Cillian pleads, panicked and trying to sneak past Abbott’s bulking form. _

_ “That was not nothing, boy. How do you know those names?” Abbott demands, spitting in his face, and when Cillian starts to cry he slaps him, twice. “Who told you about those boys, runt?” _

_ “I know them!” Cillian blubbers, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I know them, they told me - they told me.” _

_ “Told you? Talking to ghosts, are we?” The Father sneers at him.  _

_ “Yes, yes, please don’t get me, please don’t hurt me, I didn’t mean to, I won’t tell, I won’t tell!” _

_ He’s sobbing now, harder than he has in years, so hard that he can’t make out Abbott’s expression through his tears. If he could, he’d find it’s an awful lot like the one that had been on his father’s face the day he was abandoned.  _

_ The following minutes seem dreamlike to Cillian: he’s not breathing properly; his vision is swimming; and he can’t seem to say anything other than “please”, over and over again, as Abbott drags him by the arm through the halls. He can’t make out where they’re going, despite his near five years in the home. Everything is blurry, everything is spinning, but he’s worried that if he closes his eyes he’ll be too afraid to open them again. _

_ Eventually Abbott throws him in a closet, locking him in without a word. Cillian doesn’t scream, doesn’t throw himself against the door and pound his fists; if he is in the cupboard, then he is not with Abbott, and if he is not with Abbot, then he is safe. _

_ He is safe, and before long his friends are with him, - Aiden discovering him and then shouting for the rest of their little gang-  hovering nervously and filling the tiny room with their familiar blue glow.  _

_ He is safe, and his tears dry as the hours pass. _

_ His imposed isolation lasts a over a week. The door only opens once a day, Father Daniels holding half a slice of bread and a small cup of water for Cillian. They’re starving out the demon, Daniels says, weakening it before the ritual. Cillian doesn’t say anything, though he knows there is no demon, no evil spirit in his mind. He just takes his bread and drinks his water and tries not to cry anymore. _

_ On the ninth day, the door opens and it is not Daniels but Abbott glaring down at him, two unfamiliar priests flanking him. Cillian scampers back into a corner, but he’s both too weak and too scared to put up much of a fight when the strangers grab him by the legs and pull him out into the hall.  _

_ The throw him onto the altar in the chapel, Abbott holding his wrists down hard enough to grind the bone while one of the others ties his feet down. There are scrapes on his face from where he’s been dragged on the floor; he can feel blood oozing slowly from his cheek, his forehead. _

_ The remaining priest begins to read in Latin, loud and angry. _

_ Cillian doesn’t know what they’re expecting, but when he fails to react the priest starts to shout, all but screaming in his face. When all Cillian does is flinch away and plead with Abbott to let him go, they turn to a new tactic: they roll him onto his stomach, and from the corner of his eyes he sees them pull out a whip.  _

_ He begins to thrash and cry, terrified as they start to tug at his shirt, Abbott’s hands almost gentle as they run over his back. It’s wrong and awful and terrifying and Cillian’s begun to cry once more, but it’s the softest touch, the barest comfort he’s known in years. He retches at the thought of enjoying it, even a little. He resolves that the next time Abbot’s hand gets close enough, he’ll bite off the man’s fingers.  _

_ The whip cracks against his back, the sound cutting through the Latin, and he screams.  _

_ It only touches him once. _

_ All fifteen of his ghostly friends have begun to shout, their rage on his behalf - as well as what anger has been pent up well before Cillian ever arrived - enough to make the room quake. It’s like his mother’s final farewell, tenfold.  _

_ Pews are toppled, the light fixtures torn from the walls and flung toward the priests, and Abbott has to let go of Cillian in order to avoid getting hit by a crucifix.  _

_ Cillian ducks away, tugging at the ropes on his legs until they come free. He rolls off the table and crawls on his knees toward the back entrance, ducking under the debris. He’s almost to the door when someone snatches his ankle, dragging him backwards. _

_ It’s Abbott, grabbing his wrists again and hovering over him, a wild look on his face. Cillian starts to kick and buck, trying desperately to get out from under him to no avail. He sees, just over Abbott’s shoulder, Gideon, Connor, and Liam, all staring at the Father with pure hatred in their eyes.  _

_ Gideon catches his stare, winks, and in an instant all the windows shatter. From one moment to the next, Abbott is impaled with what must be hundreds of pieces of glass. Cillian can feel the warmth from his blood as it oozes down onto him. Abbott stares down at Cillian, blood dripping from his mouth and onto his scraped forehead, and hoarsely breathes his last words: _

_ “...monster…” _

_ Cillian closes his eyes and lets himself weep and scream for only ten seconds. Ten seconds, and then he pushes the dead body off him and runs, covered in Abbott’s blood and still bleeding himself.  _

_ He runs as far as his feet will carry him. _

_ He runs, and he never looks back.  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poems silver reads from are both by John Donne. The first is "A Valediction of the Book", which felt appropriate for Flint and the Hamiltons, and the second is the end of "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning", which felt appropriate for this fic in particular. 
> 
> next chapter: Madi!!! MY LOVE!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to apologize for this long-overdue update/finale! school really kicked my ass, and i'm so grateful that people were still reading and enjoying the fic even when i was too busy to update.

It takes all of Silver’s self-restraint not to gape in complete wonder as they reach the Maroon Camp.

Not because they’ve stumbled upon this haven for what are presumably escaped slaves - which is in itself a wondrous thing, when one thinks on it - but because of the _ghosts_.

There are more of them here than he’s ever seen before; probably hundreds milling around. He finds himself gawking at the riverbank for far too long, but he can’t help himself: it seems like every few moments a new spirit emerges from the water, gazing up at the camp and its inhabitants with joyful tears in their eyes.

He’s distracted from his staring as one of their captors shoves at his shoulder, pushing him to fall in line with the others as they’re presented to the Maroon Queen. He knows it’s impossible, but he could _swear_ he sees her glance over to where Miranda hovers next to Flint.

They’re dismissed and summarily shoved into cages, and Silver in turn has to spend a good hour or so taking time to calm the men as best as he can given the circumstances. It’s only when they’ve finally stopped crowding him for false platitudes that he can finally take some weight off his aching, burning stump, sitting in a corner with a good view of the lake. Silver doesn’t take off the peg, though he knows he should; he’d rather be prepared to run if need be than have that brief comfort. He’s glad that Howell’s in the cage below, for he’d surely get a tern talking-to for his lack of self-preservation.

For once, he lets Billy do the talking, the bosun acquainting himself with the other prisoner readily. Silver couldn’t give two shits about Ben Gunn: he doesn’t need another person to worry about, thank you very much.

Silver glances out over the camp, and it is then that he notices the second unusual thing about these ghosts, other than their sheer numbers. Every few minutes a ghost will slowly disappear, slipping away in an shroud of light. Sometimes the ghost in question has only just seen the camp when the light consumes them.

“What’s happening to them?” Miranda asks, sounding both curious and anxious.

For once, Silver’s grateful that he’s gained a reputation for being ornery when his leg is bothering him; there’s just enough distance between himself and the others that he can mumble an answer.

“They’re moving on,” he mutters, lips barely shifting. “Their unfinished business has been resolved, whatever it was. They’re going wherever most people go when they die.”

“Oh,” Miranda says, like the thought of an actual afterlife hasn’t occurred to her until now. “Will that be my fate?”

“Dunno.”

He hopes, selfishly, that it won’t be. She’s silent for a time, taking in this new information.

“Why are so many of them moving on? I’ve gone months without witnessing such a thing, and now I’ve seen it over a dozen times.”

“No fucking clue,” he replies quietly, just as Flint reaches him. He’d been so caught up in watching the spirits, he hadn’t even noticed the captain approach.

“What was that?”

Flint sits next to him with a groan, and Silver scrambles to find some sort of way to explain his remark.

“Uh - no fucking clue how we’re going to get ourselves out of this one, Captain.”

“Billy seems to be working on that,” Flint says, nodding over to where Billy and Gunn are deep in conversation.

“Yes, well, knowing Billy, his plan involves finding some way to leave you behind.”

Flint looks almost amused. “And yours wouldn’t?”

Silver strokes his chin, pretending to think on it deeply. “Do you know, I don’t think it would.”

For the first time perhaps ever, he seems to have shocked Flint into silence. He can’t help his slightly smug smile at that, turning to look back out from their prison.

Miranda, when he peeks over at her, is absolutely beaming.

 

 

*****

 

 

He’s not overly surprised when the guard holds a knife to his throat through the bars.

They’ve been pulling men out systematically for the past two days; surely someone would have noticed by now that this pirate crew’s quartermaster is more vulnerable than the rest, seen the way the men hover around him anxiously when it takes too long for him to stand. Silver’s a weak link, a chink in the crew’s armor, and it shows.

“Up,” the guard insists, and Silver’s dragged from the cage. When Miranda tries to follow, he shakes his head with as little movement as he’s capable. Whatever awaits him, he cannot be distracted.

Of course, when he’s unceremoniously shoved into the Maroon Princess’s quarters, there are already two ghosts there, a pair of older women who must have been sisters in life. Perhaps Miranda should have come after all, to keep their attention on her rather than him.

It’s bad enough these spirits are here at all (the last thing he wants is for the Princess to think he’s not giving her the attention she’s due), but then - then they start _talking_.

“He’s not so bad looking for a pirate, don’t you think?” The one on the left - the one with dreadlocks piled high on her head - says, elbowing her companion.

“Not so bad looking for a white man, you mean," says the one on the right, hair loose and curly and cropped close to her head. Silver’s trying desperately to maintain eye contact with the Princess, but he doesn’t miss the way this ghost gives him an assessing look, from head to toe. “He’s too short, Idie.”

The Princess coughs suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand. It’s odd that she’s waited so long to speak: perhaps she’s waiting for him to break first? Letting him stand here anxiously in what she thinks is silence?

The ghost with the dreadlocks - Idie - comes closer, circling him. It takes an incredible amount of self restraint not to move away. “He’s short, yes, but look at these curls, Oya! And the back of him isn’t too bad, either.”

The other ghost, Oya, moves until she’s directly in front of Silver. He focuses as hard as he can on the Princess, _who still hasn’t said anything._

“His eyes are sad. Lost.”

Silver barely avoids rolling his eyes. He doesn’t need any more comments on his ‘sad eyes’, thank you very much. He gets enough of that from Miranda.

“Was there something you wanted from me, ma’am?” Silver asks the Princess, a tad impatient. She’s strikingly beautiful, with eyes sharp as daggers. She reminds him of Max, a little, in the way she seems to be analyzing his every movement, his every word.

As the two ghosts begin conversing in earnest, she asks him about the pardons, of all things. He has to repeat the question back, to make sure he didn’t mishear her over the debate over whether sad eyes are honest eyes.

None of his answers seem to satisfy her, no matter how he tries. As the guard starts to drag him back the way he came, Silver shrugs him off, stumbling back towards her.

“Wait a minute. Wait, wait, wait a minute. I think you see our interests are more closely aligned than your mother does.”

Sometimes, Silver’s noticed over the years, ghosts will speak to the living, even when they cannot hear. Such is the case with these two women, it would seem.

“Madi Scott, don’t you _dare_ let yourself be taken in by this man’s words,” Oya says, practically hissing in the Princess’s ear.

 _“Scott?”_ He blurts out incredulously before he can stop himself.

All three women, living and dead, freeze, staring at him with varying degrees of surprise on their faces.

“Leave us,” the Princess - Madi - says to the guard again, and it is only when the man is gone that she grins, almost smugly. Silver would be taken aback by how beautiful her smile is, were it not for how unsafe he feels. “I _knew_ it. You can see them!”

Silver immediately starts to deny the accusation, before he realizes the full implications of what she’s saying. “You - what?”

The Princess doesn’t seem to be listening, though, too wrapped up in her revelation. “I knew it - when you were all brought before Mother, you stared so intently at the riverbank, and with such wonder, too - it must have been the spirits that you were seeing.”

“You can see them.” Silver repeats disbelievingly, almost to himself. He feels a bit lightheaded, in all honesty.

“I’ve never met someone else who could, other than Mother, naturally, but that’s to be expected - ”

“Your mother?” He echoes.

The Princess continues, pointing out the little behaviors that gave him away, once she’d known what to look for, and Silver can feel his breathing grow short.

“Madi, dear, I think our guest is feeling overwhelmed,” Idie says quietly.

He wants to remind her that he’s still a prisoner, not a guest, but he can’t seem to get any air into his lungs. There’s a hand on his shoulder, a comforting sort of warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and he’s slowly but surely guided to sit on a bench.

It feels like it must take hours for the last vestiges of his panic to recede, for the constricting feeling around his chest to lift. It’s only when he finally feels as though he’s in control of himself once more that he notices the Princess sitting next to him patiently.

“I’m sorry. I…” Silver trails off with a sigh. He has no idea how to put his thoughts into words. He’s gotten into the habit of not examining his emotions too closely, so much so that he can’t even begin to understand all that he’s feeling at the moment.

The Princess responds slowly, softly, and though Silver doubts she’s ever been one to mince words, it seems as though she’s taking extra care in what she says.

“I think, perhaps, we have had very different experiences when it comes to our gifts.”

Silver can’t help the bitter chuckle he lets out at her phrasing. ‘Gift,’ indeed.

“More like a curse, if you ask me.”

“A curse?” The Princess asks, frowning, and Silver reluctantly elaborates.

“I - sharing my… gift hasn’t always had the most pleasant of results,” he says. He has a sudden thought, as he replays their previous conversation in his head, and he sits up straighter, glaring at her half-heartedly. “You were laughing! When she said I was short, you were laughing at me!”

He is slightly indignant about this, yes, but more importantly it distracts from his little mental breakdown.

The Princess giggles - _giggles_ \- covering her mouth in much the same way she did before. “I apologize: I’d asked my aunts to help me ascertain whether or not you shared my gift. They were a bit - overly zealous in their approach. Idie - the one who admired your behind -  came up with the idea to insult you, to comment on your appearance and goad you.”

It was a clever idea - he can’t imagine many men take slights to their person so well as him Slights, he’s used to. It’s the physical assaults he never quite got over.

It’s then that Silver remembers what it was that made him slip up: the Princess’s last name.

“Madi Scott. That’s what she called you. Not ‘Scott’ as in Mr. Scott, the until-recently constant shadow of one Eleanor Guthrie?”

“Until recently?”

Silver pauses. “You haven’t heard what happened to her?”

Madi shrugs, smoothing out some imagined wrinkle on her skirt. “My father’s position in Nassau is precarious. He cannot risk long, heartfelt letters, or indeed many letters at all. So long as supplies and maroons keep arriving, we know he is well.”

Thus sparks a conversation that lasts well into the early hours of the morning, first about the going-ons of Nassau these past few months, from what Silver knows of Scott’s leaving of the Guthrie’s service to Eleanor’s arrest to Rackham’s taking the gold and Max’s purchase of the tavern. Then discussion moves to ghosts, particularly Miranda, and Silver’s many questions about the spirits of this camp. Finally, they return to Flint’s war, and Silver thinks by the end of it Madi - for that is what she has asked him to call her - might have come to see their side of things.

All in all, when he’s shoved back into his cage with the rest of the men, he feels as though he did all he could for their welfare.

And, perhaps even more importantly, he feels less alone than he ever has.

 

 

*****

 

 

By the time the guard comes to collect Flint, Silver thinks he’s talked the captain off the ledge. The little razor is on the floor and not in its hiding spot, so Silver will take that as a win. He doesn’t want to analyze why he’s so adamant that Flint not sacrifice himself; he’ll put it down to concern on Miranda’s behalf, and try not to look to closely at his own feelings.

Flint stands and heads to the door, awaiting his escort, but the guard makes no move to leave.

“Him, too,” he says, gesturing to Silver.

Silver startles, looking between Flint and the guard anxiously. He finds it unlikely that Flint would want him listening in on his desperate attempts at diplomacy, but at the same time the guard has a _fucking_ gun.

Sure enough, Flint protests. “That won’t be necessary.”

“The Queen insists. She says to bring the woman also.”

(Miranda hasn’t met the Queen yet, but as soon as Silver had managed to quietly explain what had happened with the princess, she’d raced to acquaint herself with Madi. Silver’s honestly concerned that she likes Madi more than him, and it’s been less than a day.)

Silver glances at Miranda in a panic even as Flint’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Woman? What woman?” Flint asks, bewildered.

“This is what she says. I do not question my queen.” He looks to Silver. “She says the one-legged man will understand.”

Flint turns to Silver, completely baffled, but Silver just sighs, shrugging. “Let’s just get this over with, Captain.”

The Queen is as regal and imposing as Silver remembers. Seeing Madi at her side is only a small relief; for all that they’ve forged a tentative bond, she is not her mother. Silver and Flint’s fates are out of her hands.

Idie and Oya wink at him though, so perhaps their odds aren’t so bad after all. Surely Madi’s aunts wouldn’t be flirting with him if he were about to be sentenced to death. Flint is ushered to a short stool before the Queen, while Silver is sent to one along the edges of this tense scene. Madi joins him, though, and gives Miranda a polite smile, so that’s something.

Silver listens intently to Flint’s speech to the Queen, enraptured as ever with his way with words, the way he draws his listeners in. Still, he does not miss the way the Queen’s eyes occasionally stray to where he himself sits.

“England takes whatever, whenever, however it wants. Lives, loves, labor, spirits, homes...It has taken them from me,” Flint says, and Silver can only imagine how badly Miranda wants to go to his side. “I imagine that it has taken it from you. And when that veil drops altogether, they will come for more.”

The plan he proposes is, at least to Silver, reasonable, despite the overwhelming odds against them. He thinks perhaps Flint might have turned the Queen around. But then she brings Silver into the mix.

“Why should I trust your intentions, when your own Quartermaster does not trust you?”

Flint pauses, taken aback, then turns to face Silver, betrayed and bewildered.

“I don’t - that’s not true,” SIlver insists. He starts to get to his feet, indignant and slightly alarmed, but Madi tugs him back down.

“Is it not?” The Queen asks, cool and aloof. “Why does one man keep a secret from another, if not a lack of trust?”

“Secret? What secret? Silver, what the hell is she talking about?” Flint demands, but Silver can’t bear to look at him right now. He keeps his eyes on the Queen.

“Forgive me, Ma’am, but there are a great many reasons why someone might withhold the truth.”

“So what are yours, if not a lack of faith in your Captain?”

Silver starts to respond, only to find his words have caught in this throat. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, why the thought of Flint - of anyone, really - discovering him is so paralyzing. He can’t very well tell her about the last time someone caught him out, about the chapel and the whips and the years of nights on the streets. He’s started to tremble, he realizes, shaking with the strength of his anxiety.

To his surprise, Madi speaks up on his behalf. “He’s frightened, Mother, can’t you see? I tried to tell you before - it’s not a gift, to these white men. He’s hidden himself for his own safety.”

“Let him speak for himself, Madi,” The Queen chides, staring Silver down.

“She’s not wrong,” is all he says at first. But the Queen seems unsatisfied, and so he hastens to continue. “But that fear has nothing to do with Captain Flint. It’s more… everyone who came before.”

“I hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have to insist someone tell me what the fuck is going on," Flint interjects, confused and more than a little annoyed.

“Mister Silver can see the spirits of the dead. It is a gift my mother and I share, and a rare one.”

The silence that follows Madi’s response is stifling. Silver doesn’t breathe for a good minute, it feels. But Flint just seems frustrated, rather than shocked or fearful; he doesn’t believe her.

“I don’t appreciate being trifled with, Ma’am.” He says, voice tight.

“Then it is a good thing I am not trifling,” Madi replies evenly. Silver’s pathetically grateful that it is her and not him telling all this to Flint. He doesn’t think he’d be physically capable of getting the words out.

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. There’s no such thing as a ghost.”

“Isn’t there?”

Before Flint can respond to Madi, the Queen interrupts.

“Enough. The intention of this meeting was to gauge Captain Flint’s trustworthiness. I have no patience for this squabbling, not when the lives are so many are at risk.” She turns her attention to Miranda. “You. I have been informed of your relationship with the Captain. What say you of his intentions?”

Flint is none-too-gently ushered over to sit with Silver as the Queen speaks with Miranda.

“What the fuck,” Flint mutters under his breath, “is going on.”

Silver shushes him, wringing his hands together nervously.

“There is no one, excepting you and your people, who has more reason to hate England or indeed civilization itself than James Flint. It has taken from him all he holds dear, including myself.”

“And yet,” The Queen replies. “He is a pirate. A white pirate, at that. I cannot so easily place my trust in such a man.”

“I understand. But so long as your interests align - and I can see no reason why they won’t always do so - you have no reason to fear a betrayal.”

Not the most ringing endorsement, Silver thinks, but at least she’s being honest.

The Queen looks to Silver. “You agree with this assertion?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ _What_ assertion?” Flint asks, but Silver just elbows him.

“And your Mr. Silver’s refusal to place his trust in the Captain? You see no reason for doubt here?”

Miranda looks to Silver, sad and terribly fond. It’s a familiar look.

“I’m afraid the terror Mr. Silver feels at the thought of being discovered long predates his acquaintance with the Captain or myself. I would hardly think it fair to judge the Captain based on behavior rooted so deeply in childhood trauma.”

The Queen looks over to Silver, almost pitying. Madi rests her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Despite the fact that he hardly knows her, he does actually feel a little better.

“I suppose you are right.” She says finally, moving to stand before Flint. “We will accept your proposition, and join this alliance.”

Flint and Silver are escorted from the tent, and together they watch as the guards go to unlock the cages and release their men. Flint gestures for Silver to follow him, and they slowly make their way down the wooden stairs to the ground.

Flint evidently deems them far enough from the Queen’s earshot, and he whirls on Silver. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

He looks almost wild, bewildered and defensive, and Silver is so, so tired. It’s as though all the adrenaline of the night before has left him in a sudden rush. “That was Miranda, Captain.”

Silver hears Miranda’s gasp from behind him, and if he weren’t so fucking exhausted he might be more concerned over the way Flint has gone eerily still, the way his eyes have gone sharp and shrewd.

“What the _fuck_ did you say?” Flint says lowly, hoarsely. Silver leans against one of the support beams of the Queen’s quarters, letting out a shuddering exhale. God, but his leg is _aching_.

Tired though he may be, he still has enough wherewithal to flinch when Flint moves suddenly, reaching toward him. Flint pauses only briefly, before resting his hand against Silver’s brow.

It’s a gentleness he hadn’t expected from Flint, not in this particular moment.

Flint’s expression becomes less harsh almost immediately. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Silver asks, trying to desperately keep his eyes open. Flint still hasn’t taken his hand away.

“You have a fever. No doubt an infection from your leg.”

Silver does react to that, jerking back and stepping away. “You think - you think what I’m seeing is just…”

“It certainly explains you believing my dead companion was speaking to the Queen.”

It’s an easy out: Silver could play along, lean into what may indeed be a fever and - if Madi and her mother don’t contradict him - hope that Flint never questions his sanity again. He should let Flint believe it’s only the fever, and keep himself safe.

So why, he wonders, does it hurt so much to have Flint doubt him in this moment?

He hasn’t answered, his thoughts too muddled, and Flint surely takes this as the confirmation he’s looking for. “We’ll be casting off as soon as possible, in search of Charles Vane - I have an idea of where he and Teach might have made landing. You will not be joining us.”

Silver balks at this, but Flint’s expression brooks no arguments.

“You’re not well, Silver. And beyond that, we need someone to stay behind. This alliance is tentative at best, and the Princess at least seems to trust you.”

Silver doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know how to tell Flint that they just can’t _abandon_ him, like he’s some dead weight. If Flint and the crew leave him behind, what’s to stop them from realizing how little they truly need him?

“He’ll come back for you, John,” Miranda says quietly, soothingly. “Of course he’ll come back.”

 

*****

 

 

It’s only after the healer has applied her poultice to his aching, flaming stump, once he’s resting and lost in his thoughts, that Madi once again turns his world on its axis.

“Why do you not act as a mediator between your captain and Miranda?”

He turns, blinking at her blearily. “What do you mean?”

“My mother and I often share our gift, allowing the spirits to meet with their living loved ones one last time. I’m sure you’ve noticed that for many simply seeing this community, seeing their brothers and sisters living freely, is enough to help them move on. For others, it takes a little more effort.”

Silver props himself onto his elbows, staring at her in shock. “You mean - you can make others see them too?”

“Only briefly. The longest I’ve managed is twenty minutes. It’s….taxing,” She gives him a searching sort of look. “I’m surprised you cannot do the same.”

“Well, I didn’t have a mother to teach me all this.” Silver lies back down, staring up at the ceiling as his mind races.

If he were to share this with Flint, with Miranda, then they could see each other once more. There was so much left unsaid before Miranda died, and he knows Flint blames himself for her death. It could be the closure they both need, a reassurance that there was indeed love between them, till the bitter end, and Miranda -

Miranda would be gone.

Silver would lose her.

The thought settles in his chest, wrapping around his lungs like a vice. It’s almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, thinking of her fading away, moving on to a better place surely, but a place he can’t follow.

“I don’t know if… If they’re ready,” he says at last, the lie heavy on his tongue.

Madi moves, sitting next to him on the bed. She lays a hand over his. “Is it they who are not ready, or you?”

He winces. “I just…”

“She is dear to you. You do not want to say goodbye,” Madi observes, far too insightful.

Silver sighs, closing his eyes. “Yeah.”

“I will not broach this with the captain or Miranda when they return. But, if I may, I think you ought to.”

She leaves at that, presumably to see to her ailing father, and leaves Silver adrift in a sea of guilt and anxiety.

 

 

*****

 

 

_He’s been Jorge for nearly six months when he meets Rosario for the first time._

_Jorge hates Tortuga, hates how loud and brash the men are, hates the heat and the constant sun, though at the same time he doesn’t miss Dublin in the least. There were too many memories, too many ghosts, literal and figurative, in that rainy, gray city._

_At least in Tortuga he doesn’t have to worry about freezing to death overnight._

_He’s seen Rosario before, of course; within the first two weeks he’d familiarized himself with almost every ghost that lingered in his usual spots: the alley behind the brothel (well, the brothel whose Madame doesn’t mind Jorge hanging around out back); under one of the lesser used docks, the one kept unoccupied for Spanish ships - fuck, but it rains a lot in the Caribbean; and next to the tailor’s, whose wife has a soft spot for hungry, wide-eyed orphans._

_He doesn’t know Rosario’s name until she approaches him; before that, he just thinks of her as ‘The Pretty Girl’, the one with the marks on her neck. She hangs around the brothel usually, scanning the faces of the men coming in from the docks as if she’s looking for someone in particular._

_She comes to him on a rainy evening, when Jorge’s usual hiding spot has been too overrun for him to find a space for himself. He should have left as soon as the rain had started, but there’d been a particularly dense solicitor who’d left himself open for the sort of pickpocketing tricks Jorge usually reserves for drunks._

_Sometimes he’ll go hide in one of the houses on the outskirts of town, namely the ones which have been raided and burned by pirates or soldiers (depending on the day). They smell like death and ash, and though Jorge has never seen a ghost in any of these husks of homes, he sometimes could swear he hears the homeowners screaming. It’s frightening, but at least he doesn’t have to fight for a place to sleep; none of the other tramps are brave enough to spend the night._

_She scares the living daylights out of him, floating through the wall next to him as he’s finally starting to doze off._

_The look she gives him is curious, but not menacing, and so he gives her a tentative smile when it seems like she won’t be leaving anytime soon._

_“So you can see me,” She says in a heavily accented voice, smiling in return._

_Jorge nods. “All of you.”_

_She moves closer, so she can get a better look at him. He probably looks like a drowned rat, with the way his curls are hanging wetly around his face. “How come?”_

_He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s always been like this.”_

_“How long is always?”_

_“You mean how old am I? Thirteen. How old are you?”_

_“Fourteen,” She replies, and Jorge wonders how old she would be if some man hadn’t grabbed her around the neck and squeezed. “You have marks like mine,” she continues, and it’s then that Jorge realizes she has bruises on her wrists as well as her throat_

_He rolls down his sleeves, embarrassed and ashamed. “It happens sometimes.”_

_“When you take those men behind the whorehouse?”_

_Jorge scoots back at that. “You’ve been watching me?”_

_“Why shouldn’t I?” She retorts, almost haughty. “You watch everyone.”_

_She pauses for a moment, before she continues, no doubt aware of how uncomfortable she’s made Jorge._

_“Also, your hair is pretty. I like it.”_

_Jorge blushes, taken aback. No one’s ever complimented him on his hair without some ulterior motive. People only call him pretty or comment on his hair when they want something from him._

_It’s a nice change._

_“Thank you. I - your English is very good,” he replies, which isn’t at all what he meant to say, but how does he go about telling her that she’s the prettiest ghost he’s ever seen?_

_“So is yours. I almost can’t tell it is not your first language.”_

_That startles a laugh out of him. He reaches out his hand, more for the gesture than anything else. “I’m Jorge.”_

_She allows her hand to phase through his, and he shudders at the sudden cold. “Rosario.”_

_They spend nearly every moment together after that (except when Jorge is working, he can’t stand to have her see him like that). He doesn’t feel comfortable speaking to her in public, so it’s often times just Rosario chattering to him in both Spanish and English, trying to get him to smile as he goes about his day. Sometimes he’ll steal a loaf of bread, and then he’s able to spend the whole day with her in the woods or out on an abandoned stretch of beach, portioning the roll into breakfast, lunch, and dinner._

_It’s unbearably hot in Tortuga, and so Rosario will sometimes phase through Jorge on purpose, giggling as he yelps and shivers. He’s always grateful for the chill, but he wishes she would tell him when she’s planning on doing it._

_One morning, she insists that he steal a book, any book. It takes some time, for the bookseller is extremely suspicious of the raggedy street urchin who wanders into his store, but by the end of the week Jorge manages to smuggle out the smallest book he can find._

_“Do you want me to turn the pages for you, Rosie?” he asks that evening, hiding away in what he has become to think of as their home, a mostly collapsed, burnt husk of a house with only one room still standing. “I don’t mind.”_

_“No, idiota. I am going to teach you to read.”_

_“Oh. Why?” He asks, glancing down at the small green book in his hands._

_“Because it will be good for you. Now, what did you bring me?”_

_It is, apparently, a book of poetry, by someone called John Donne. The next day, Rosario has Jorge swipe some pieces of charcoal, so that he might practice his letters on the unburnt patches of wall in their house rather than ruin the pages of the book._

_It’s a painstaking, agonizing process, and Jorge finds himself throwing the damn book across the room more than once. But Rosario is patient with him, and most importantly, she believes in him. Even at thirteen, Jorge knows how rare that is._

_After months of frustration, Jorge can finally write out his name, and read some of the poems with little help from Rosario. To repay her, he often sneaks into the gardens of the people living in the interior, stealing flowers for their house to cover up the scorch marks Rosario complains about so often._

_It makes her smile, and her smile makes Jorge’s heart sing, and for the first time in years, he is happy._

_One evening, eight months after Rosario comes to stay with him, she cuts herself off mid-sentence, eyes wide and frightened._

_“What is it?” He asks as quietly as he can, moving into a nearby alley. She’d been telling him about her favorite books growing up, and already he’d been thinking of ways to steal them for her to read over his shoulder._

_“That’s my father,” Rosario says, shaken, pointing to an older man with large sideburns and a mean look in his eyes. “He’s the one who did this to me.”_

_Jorge doesn’t have to ask what she means. He’s never pried into the circumstances of her death, not wanting to upset her, and knowing now who it was that killed her makes him glad he hadn’t pressed. He can barely stand to talk about his own father, and his Papi never tried to kill him._

_Rosario starts to cry, and Jorge feels something cold settle in his chest, something vicious and angry and vindictive._

_“I’ll kill him,” he decides, and the watery, grateful smile Rosario gives him is enough to steel his nerve._

_Only - only after he lures her father into a dark alley (it’s easy, far too easy, it makes his stomach roil every time), after he plunges a knife into the man’s belly and hisses that ‘this is for Rosie,’ there’s a curious light pouring from Rosario’s body._

_She’s smiling, even as the light begins to swallow her, and Jorge - he doesn’t understand what’s happening, why she seems to calm -_

_“Thank you, Jorge. I love you very much.”_

_And she’s gone._

_She’s gone, and at first Jorge thinks she’s just gone back to their little burnt house, and so he runs from the body, scrambling through the crowded streets._

_He calls for her the entire time, hoping she’s just on her way there, that he can catch her and everything will be fine. He doesn’t care how much attention he’s calling to himself as he screams her name, over and over, doesn’t pay any mind to the annoyed drunks who shove at him for being too loud: he has to find her, he has to make sure she’s all right, why did she just leave like that?_

_Only she’s not in their makeshift home, and she’s not on the beach, and she’s not in the woods. She’s not anywhere._

_Jorge screams himself hoarse as he looks, until one day in town - as he’s still weakly calling her name - when an older ghost pulls him aside and explains what it means when a spirit ‘moves on.’_

_Jorge goes home that night, curls up under the thin blanket Rosario had insisted he steal for himself, and weeps, like he hasn’t in years. He weeps, and weeps, and weeps, screams his anger and his grief into his moth-eaten pillow, and curses the day he ever came to Tortuga._

_Still, Rosario abandoning him teaches Jorge a valuable lesson: it’s better to be alone, to keep himself apart. Even the people that say they care will only hurt him in the end._

 

 

*****

 

 

So far, the best thing about being left behind - other than his budding friendship with Madi - has been having his own bath. The old woman who’d tended to his stump had insisted he wash and reapply the poultices regularly, and Madi had decided it was easier to have a wooden tub brought to his assigned quarters than to have him make the trek to the healer’s hut multiple times a day.

He hasn’t had a bath of his own in - well, ever, actually. The tub itself is old and worn, and he’s pricked his underarm on the edges once or twice, but it’s still more luxury than he’s had in a long while.

Silver soaks in the cool water for far too long, but it’s not as if he has any duties to attend to: he hasn’t any further meetings with Madi, and all the men he’s responsible for are currently on the Walrus, hopefully on their way back to the island. He’s only just pulled on his breeches, his hair still dripping along his shoulders, when the Captain walks in.

Flint stops in his tracks, just staring at Silver. As the silence stretches on, Silver glances down at himself, feeling slightly self conscious. He’s still far too thin, despite the now week and a half he’s had of decent meals, but he certainly doesn’t think he looks bad enough to warrant such scrutiny.

He tries not to think about the fact that his stump is completely exposed, protruding from his breeches like an eyesore. It’s not the pus-ridden, bleeding mess it once was, but it’s by no means a pretty sight.

“You’re looking better,” Miranda comments, floating in and moving to sit next to him on the bed (so to speak). Silver moves his hand over hers, resting it on the bed next to him and relishing in the sudden chill he feels as they make what contact they can. She smiles, and he knows she understood the gesture for what it was: a ‘hello,’ a ‘how are you,’ an ‘I missed you.’

Finally, Flint seems to pull himself from whatever thoughts are running through his head, and he moves to remove his jacket, draping it over the nearest chair.

“Madi says your fever has gone?” Flint prompts, pointedly looking anywhere but Silver.

Perhaps it is a hint that Silver should put some clothes on, but frankly, it’s unbearable hot at the moment, and Silver doesn’t fancy the thought of his wet hair soaking through his shirt. Flint will just have to deal with his partial nudity.

“Thanks to the healers, yes,” Silver replies. “Was your endeavor successful?”

Judging by the blood splattered across Flint’s cheeks, he’d wager yes. There always seems to be blood involved, where Vane and Flint are concerned.

“Yes. Vane’s with Billy at the moment.”

Silver grimaces at the thought of having to work in close quarters with Vane any more than he already has, and judging by the stern expression on Miranda’s face, she agrees.

“I know you don’t like him, but we need him,” Flint says, his voice about as placating as it ever gets. Silver’s fairly sure Flint believes he dislikes Vane purely because of his association with the man who hacked his leg to pieces, but that’s really only part of it. It’s hard to forget first impressions, and Silver’s first impression of Charles Vane had been when the man had nearly strangled a much smaller, unarmed woman to death. It’s hard to forget that sort of mindless brutality, or the complete lack of remorse the man had shown when he'd realized he was wrong.

Silver doesn’t think they really need Vane, anyway, but he’s not about to voice that particular thought.

“The bath is still fairly cool, if you’d like to use it,” he says instead, and at Flint’s askance look, he elaborates. “You’ve got blood on you.”

Sure, Flint is probably used to it at this point, but there’s no reason he has to walk around with some poor sod’s bodily fluids on his face while they’re in the middle of forging this tentative alliance. There’s no reason to reinforce Flint’s bloodthirsty reputation with the Queen when they can easily avoid it with some rags and soap.

Flint shucks off his shirt, revealing a truly shocking amount of freckles. Silver turns to Miranda before he’s caught staring, his cheeks a tad hot. Her expression though, as she looks at Flint, is more intense than he’s seen in months.

When she finally speaks, her voice is strained, almost angry. “Yes, one does tend to get blood on themselves, when they challenge Edward Teach to a duel.”

 _“Blackbeard?”_ Silver exclaims in alarm before he can help himself. He whips around to face Flint, who has paused in his washing, still in his trousers.

“What about him?” Flint prompts, the wet flannel hanging limp in his hand.

“You challenged Edward _fucking_ Teach to a _fucking_ duel? Have you lost your mind?”

Flint tosses the rag into the tub, turning to face him fully. “Who told you that?”

“Miranda, of course!” Silver replies without thinking, his voice rising in his panic. “Jesus Christ, Flint, of all the reckless, suicidal, ridiculous - ”

He cuts himself off abruptly, as Flint has moved quite suddenly into his space, his hand raised. Silver flinches away, and Flint frowns.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Silver, for fuck’s sake. You’re clearly still sick, no matter what the healers told you.”

He reaches out again, and Silver smacks his hand away. “I’m not sick.”

Miranda moves closer to him, nervous and concerned. “John, are you sure you want to do this? James thinks you only see me because of a fever. There’s no going back if you reveal yourself now, without an illness as a safety net.”

He gives her a small smile, then turns to Flint, determined. “It was never the fever. It was me. I’ve always been able to see her, Captain. Since Charlestown. And not in the way you sometimes see her.”

Flint’s not subtle; it had been all too easy for Miranda to realize what the man thought he was seeing all those moments he would suddenly stop and stare into space, a haunted look in his eyes.

The look on Flint’s face is nothing short of incredulous, though he wouldn’t be Silver’s Captain if there weren’t a hint of anger in his expression. Silver tries not to shrink away from that look.

“So you’ve gone mad now, is that it?” Flint asks lowly, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Oh, and you haven’t?” Silver snaps, defensive. “This is something I’ve always had to deal with. It’s not like I’ve suddenly started hallucinating my dead lover.”

“John,” Miranda admonishes him quietly, and he sighs. She’s right: this has nothing to do with Flint’s baggage.

“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Miranda and I have been talking for months, now. We’ve grown quite close, actually - she’s even told me a bit about Thomas, though not everythi - ”

He’s cut off as Flint grabs him, shoving him hard against the wall of the hut.

“How the _fuck_ do you know that name?” Flint snarls, his grip bruising. Flint hasn’t looked at him with such menace in a long while, Silver realizes faintly.

“Miranda told me - ”

“No she _didn’t_ ,” Flint hisses, “she’s dead.”

“Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together,” Miranda says in a rush, somewhat frantic.

Silver glances at her, bewildered. Now is not the time for philosophizing, no matter how much love he has for her brilliant mind.

“Say that, John,” Miranda insists. “Say it.”

She repeats it, slower this time as Flint’s grasp on his arms grows tighter and tighter as he waits for Silver’s response.

“Accept the things to which fate binds you,” Silver echoes, looking between Flint’s furious snarl and Miranda’s comforting smile. As he speaks, Flint’s grip grows slack, his eyes widening, as Silver continues to speak. “And love the people with whom fate brings you together.”

Flint lets go, though he doesn’t move away. He seems almost lost. “Why would you say that?”

“Miranda told me to. I haven’t the foggiest where it’s from,” Silver admits cautiously, rubbing the red marks on his arms.

“It’s from _Meditations_. Marcus Aurelius,” Flint says slowly, and if Silver didn’t know better he’d think there was something like hope growing in his eyes.

“Oh,” Silver understands, suddenly, why Miranda chose that particular quote. “That was Thomas’s favorite, wasn’t it?”

Flint stumbles back, falling heavily into a chair not far from where Silver is sitting on the bed.

“I - there’s no way you could have known that. Not unless she’s really here,” Flint says after a long moment, clearly shocked.

“I know,” Silver replies, watching him carefully.

“She’s here,” Flint repeats, wondrous, looking over at Silver with wide eyes.

Silver’s always been a selfish sort of man. But the look of raw, tentative hope dawning on Flint’s face, the way Mirada’s smiling with such love, such fondness… Silver knows he has to tell them about Madi’s offer, no matter how much he wishes things could stay the same.

“Captain, Miranda, there’s something you should know.”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint is gone for hours.

They’re sharing this small room, so Silver knows he’ll be back eventually, but that knowledge doesn’t quell the anxiety he’s feeling. He’s been feeling anxious since before they left, of course, but...what could be taking so _long_?

When he’d admitted that Madi knew a way for Flint to see Miranda, to speak with her, Flint had been out the door within seconds. Miranda, however, had lingered.

“Are you all right?” She’d asked, ever in tune with the micro-expressions on Silver’s face. “Only you look rather forlorn.”

There had been so many things he could have said, so many things he ought to have said. He should have told her how much she’d come to mean to him, how terribly he loved her, how grateful he’d been these past months to have her with him.

Instead, he’d simply wished her luck, with a smile he didn’t quite feel.

He’ll probably never see her again, once she and Flint have sorted through their unfinished business. She’ll have no reason to stay.

Silver doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to think about how desperately he’ll miss her when she’s gone, but it’s not like there’s much else for him to do, sitting in this small room waiting for Flint to come back.

He wonders what they’ll discuss, if they’ll speak of him at all. Probably not, he decides; Miranda and Flint share so much more than a reluctant fondness for emotionally illiterate cripples. Thirty minutes is not a terribly long time, anyway. At most, Silver would be an afterthought, tacked on to the end of a long, intimate conversation.

He imagines Madi might be uncomfortable, having to sit there and listen as Flint and Miranda no doubt air out a decade’s worth of issues.

Eventually, Silver tries to get some sleep; surely the captain will wake him when he returns.

He’s still staring up at the ceiling by the time Flint walks in. Miranda’s absence is stifling.

Silver sits up immediately, reaching over to light the oil lamp on the small table between the two beds in the room. Flint looks as though he’s seen a ghost, which - well, is exactly what just happened, probably.

“Where have you been?” He starts off with a neutral question, not wanting to overwhelm his skittish looking Captain.

“Walking. Thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything, I suppose: Miranda, Thomas, Charlestown, you…”

“Me?” Silver interrupts.

Flint quirks a brow at him, though his amusement is somewhat undercut by the still-thoughtful look in his eyes. “Is that so surprising?”

Silver shrugs. “I figured you would have more important things to discuss.”

“You’ve been the most important person in either of our lives for months now. Of course we talked about you, once we put voice to all the things we left unsaid.”

“What kind of things?”

Flint shakes his head, though he doesn’t seem offended at Silver’s question. “That will stay between Miranda and I. Don’t you want to know what she had to say about you?”

“Miranda’s never had a problem saying what she thought of me, no matter how biting. I can’t imagine she said anything I haven’t heard before.”

Flint smiles, a small, knowing thing. “You’d be surprised.”

That can’t mean anything good. “Oh?”

“She told me to be careful with you,” Flint says cautiously, that same thoughtful look on his face.

Silver lets out a startled laugh. Of all the things he’d expected to hear...

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she knows us both far too well for our own good,” Flint replies, sitting next to Silver almost gingerly. Silver briefly wishes he weren't still in only his breeches. “Miranda saw that there was something between us, and she knew nothing would come of it until she pressed the issue. Clearly, she thought I was her best bet.”

Silver shifts uneasily. “I don’t know - ”

“‘She said you’re...unpracticed, when it comes to love. That you hide from it, pretend you cannot see it. She said the depth of your feelings overwhelms you. Frightens you, even.” Flint repeats Miranda’s words, and Silver is stunned quiet.

He doesn’t answer, can’t even think of how to respond; he _is_ frightened, at how easily Miranda has taken him apart, at how she’s exposed him to Flint. Silver’s hands are trembling, he realizes, and so he tucks them under his thighs. Flint no doubt notices this; he notices everything.

“Silver - John, if I were to do something rash, would you promise not to run from me? To hide yourself away?”

SIlver frowns warily. “I guess that would depend on what you - ”

Flint kisses him, rough hands rising to cup his cheeks gently. Silver immediately leans into it, helpless to stop his sharp, thrilled gasp. He’s relieved somewhat that the choice has been taken out of his hands. Miranda was right: he never would have been brave enough to take this first step, no matter how badly (or secretly) he might have wanted it.

It takes a long moment for Silver to open his eyes once Flint draws back. When he finally does, the soft smile on the captain’s face is not unlike the one he’d worn when Silver first awoke after losing his leg.

“You’re not the only one who’s been forced to face some hard truths,” Flint says, one hand moving to hold the back of Silver’s neck. The other stays at his cheek, the thumb tracing careful lines across his cheek.

Silver presses into the touch. “She’s always done that, then?”

Flint nods, smirking, before he grows somber. Whatever this confession is, it’s important. “You shied away from this thing between us because you didn’t know how to cope with it. But I - I recognized it, saw it for what it was, and I refused to let it happen. I pushed it, and you, away, because I didn’t want it.”

Silver flinches at that, starts to pull away, but Flint holds fast.

“No - that’s not - ” Flint huffs out an irritated sigh, though for once his consternation seems to be aimed toward himself and not Silver. “You caught me off guard, snuck up on me. I wasn’t prepared for it. It seemed so unlikely, that I might have not one, not even two, but _three_ great loves. It seemed almost selfish.”

Silver furrows his brow, confused. Three? Miranda and Silver would make two, but who…?

“Thomas?” Silver asks. It’s the only possible answer. Flint smiles, a wistful sort of thing.  “It always felt like - like she wasn’t telling the whole truth, when she spoke of him. Like there was something she wouldn’t, or couldn’t tell me.” Silver wants to slap himself. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize before! It’s so obvious now, it explains _so_ _much…_ ”

He trails off as realizes the full implications of what Flint has just confirmed.

“Silver?”

“That’s why he was taken from you. Why the two of you had to run. It wasn’t you and Miranda they had a problem with, it was you and _Thomas.”_

Flint says nothing, but the grief in his eyes is wretched.

“ _Captain_ , that’s...”

It’s unfathomable, is what it is, so much so that even Silver cannot find the proper words to convey the sorrow he feels for Flint and Miranda both. Instead he wraps his arms around Flint, pulling him close and resting his chin on the captain’s shoulder.

Flint lets out a shuddering sigh, burrowing his face into the crook of Silver’s neck.

There’s quiet for a time, the only sounds that of Flint’s mournful, overdue tears. When Flint seems to have cried himself out, Silver worries, briefly, that the captain might grow uncomfortable in this vulnerable position.

“You’ll have to forgive me if my technique is a bit off,” he jokes, half-hearted at best. “It’s been some time since I’ve held anyone.”

It’s been some time since he’s had anyone _to_ hold.

Flint chuckles wetly. “Your technique is fine.”

“Good,” Silver replies, tightening his grip even further, “Because this isn’t just for you, you know. This is for all the times I wanted to hold Miranda, to give her some small comfort, but couldn’t.”

Flint pulls back at that, leveling Silver with an intense, searching stare. He stares for so long, and so intently, that Silver begins to squirm, uncomfortable and exposed.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” Flint says, finally, and Silver smiles, a little confused.

“Well, yes.”

Flint kisses him again, so intense and heartfelt and _scorching_ that Silver can do nothing but fall into it, already lost in the feel of Flint’s tongue against his own, the scrape of his teeth against his lip. He lets himself be pushed until he’s lying on his back on the bed, Flint hovering over him with a dazed, awed look in his eyes.

“God, you’re so…”

He trails off, and Silver smirks up at him.

“Charismatic? Handsome? Charming?”

Flint chuckles, shaking his head fondly even as he leans down to press their lips together again. Silver can tell, though, that his mind is still stuck on whatever he’d been trying to say.

He pushes Flint back, just far enough so their eyes can meet. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just….for someone who was so determined to remain indifferent, you’re awfully bad at it.”

“Don’t be fooled. I’m still the same selfish bastard I was when we met. Only now that selfishness extends to you, too.”

“Lucky me,” Flint replies, and Silver scoffs, mock-insulted.

“Is that _sarcasm_ I hear, Captain? I’ll have you know that I am _quite_ the catch. Why, when I was a teen - ”

Another kiss.

“It wasn’t sarcastic,” Flint mumbles against his mouth, which - oh.  Silver can feel his face go pink, much to his chagrin. Flint draws back, looking absolutely delighted. “John Silver, are you _blushing_?”

Silver scowls, cheeks growing hotter. “Quit grinning, you smug bastard, you look _deranged_ \- ”

“I’m not deranged, I’m in love.” Flint interrupts, grinning all the wider as Silver turns even redder. He probably looks like a fucking strawberry, at this point.

“You can’t just _say_ things like that!” Silver sputters, letting go of Flint’s shoulders to cover his face with his hands.

“Why not?” Flint asks innocently, pressing sweet, unreasonably hot kisses to Silver’s jawline.

“Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do,”_ he mumbles into his palms, unreasonably flustered.

Flint hums, faux-thoughtful. “You could always say you love me too,” he says casually, moving to mouth at Silver’s collarbones.

Silver lifts his hands, looking down at Flint. “I do,” he says, hoping it will be enough.

He’s not - he’s not ready, he thinks, to say it. Not when it means _so much._

“I know,” Flint replies, smug as anything. His eyes, when they meet Silver’s, are terribly warm.

Flint ducks his head, scrapes his teeth along his neck, and Silver is suddenly reminded that while he does want Flint in an abstract, intangible, emotional way, he also wants him in an immediate, desperate, intensely physical way, and has for months now.

Silver gasps, reaching up to grab at Flint’s head, running his fingers along the fine, shorn hairs.

“Flint - Captain - you - ”

Flint rolls their hips together, and Silver immediately forgets what he was going to say, his eyes slipping closed.

He has often thought that if he were to give in to what he feels for Flint, he would surely drown in its the depths. And here Flint is, crashing like the sea onto Silver’s undefended shores.

“I want - I _want_ \- ” Silver says nonsensically, embarrassingly breathy and _writhing_ at the feel of Flint’s cock through his breeches. He can feel Flint smirk against his throat.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

Silver lets out a laugh. “I don’t know. Is ‘everything’ an appropriate answer?”

Flint props himself up on one elbow, his free hand slowly trailing down Silver’s chest and toward the buttons of his breeches.

Flint seems almost reverent as he pulls Silver’s cock out, cupping him firmly. Once he gets over the hot, aching shock of it - Flint touching him like this - Silver returns the favor, wrapping his hand around Flint’s cock and smirking as the captain gasps at a particular twist of his wrist. Flint might have had his great love, but Silver’s handled his fair share of cocks himself; he’s no shrinking violet.

Eventually it’s not enough, just touching each other, and Flint takes both their cocks in his hand, using their pre-come to smooth the glide as their hips grind together. Silver feels strung out, like his every nerve ending has been stretched thin. He’s fraying at the edges, dizzy with need, and he doesn’t think he minds at all.

“Can’t wait to get my mouth on you,” Flint says, low and filthy into Silver’s ear. Silver whines at the thought, clutching at Flint’s shoulder as the captain takes control. “You’ll be so _thick_ , John, so heavy on my tongue - fuck _, look_ at you, you’re so _beautiful_ \- ”

Silver comes with a high-pitched whine, white streaking across Flint’s fist and onto his own bare stomach. Flint follows not long after, a punched-out groan pressed against Silver’s neck.

He reaches over the side of the bed, using Silver’s discarded shirt to wipe away the mess as best he can. One kiss to Silver’s chest, then another, and Flint’s rolling off to lie on his back, sated and smirking.

“Our first time together, and I didn’t even get to see you naked,” Silver says ruefully, still breathless and tingling all over.

A pause.

“You could see me naked now,” Flint points out, raising a brow expectantly.

“Excellent point, Captain,” he replies, and reaches for Flint's trousers once more.

 

 

******

 

 

There’s still a few hours left until the sun rises, but Silver can’t manage to get back to sleep, no matter what a comfortable pillow Flint’s chest makes.

He’s been awake for nearly an hour by now, but he hasn’t bothered to lift his head, instead reveling in the slow, steady beat of Flint’s heart under his ear, the even rise and fall of his chest. It’s almost enough to lull him back to sleep.

Almost.

A hand rests on his back, slow and lazy, running along his spine gently.

“John?” Flint sounds half-asleep still, like he’s fighting the pull even as his concern for Silver grows.

“When you lost sight of Miranda,” he begins, “what happened? Was there any flash of light, anything odd you noticed when she disappeared?”

Flint’s hand stops it’s soothing movements. “One moment she was there, and then Madi had to let go of me, and she wasn’t. From one blink to the next, she was gone.”

Silver pushes up onto an elbow, looking down at Flint pleadingly. “And did Madi say anything? After?”

“You needn’t be so concerned, John dear,” a voice says, and Silver sits up abruptly. Miranda floats in, smiling fondly at the sight of him and Flint, legs still intertwined. “I was simply giving you stubborn fools some privacy.”

“Miranda,” he breathes, light-headed with relief. “I thought…”

Miranda moves closer, until she’s sat on the bed next to them. She reaches up, and Silver can feel the chill, if not her hands themselves, as she cups his cheeks. “I would not leave you. Not now.”

To Silver’s utter horror, his eyes fill with tears, and a little hiccup of a sob escapes him. Flint sits up, wrapping an arm around Silver and letting him lean his head against his shoulder.

“Is she here?”

Silver nods, taking Flint’s free hand and moving it to his cheek, letting it overlap with Miranda’s. “Feel that cold spot? That’s her.”

Flint sucks in a sharp, surprised breath, at feeling her touch even in this indirect way. “Madi had told us, before, that talking with me might be enough to help Miranda move on to whatever lies beyond. Is that why you looked so miserable when we left?”

“I didn’t want her to go,” he says to Flint, tears still sliding down his cheeks. To Miranda: “I didn’t want you to go.”

Miranda smiles, that private, fond, almost sisterly smile she reserves for Silver alone.

“I’m far from finished, my love. After all, we’re going to watch the world burn.”

 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! i hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> if you're wondering, i don't imagine miranda moves on, so to speak, until flint, thomas, silver, and madi all get their shit together post-show. she's got to make sure her boys are together and happy, you know?
> 
> also, yes, Idie and Oya's names are an x-men reference.

**Author's Note:**

> black sails tumblr: slverjohn


End file.
